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Beyond THE Pale 




A NOVEL 







B. M. CROKER 

Author of “P?*oj>er Pride,'' Pretty Miss Neville," 
Bird of Passage," ^^^Diana Barrington," Two Mas- 
ters,'" “-4 Family Likeness," “-4 Third Person," 
"Mr. Jervis," "Village Tales and Jungle 
Tragedies" "Interference," "Lady 
Hilda," "Married or Single," etc. 


/i jf 


"A 




IN TWO PARTS— PART ONE 


Y 'Tv ? } 


:) 


Entered according to Act of Congress. In the year 1896, by 
Peter Feicklox Colukr 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington 


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4 


BEYOND THE PALE 


CHAPTER ONE 

MRS. SHEA AND MR. MONEY • 

‘‘So it’s a boycotted farm ye’s are craving 
to see!” exclaimed a shrill female voice, and 
there was a distinct note of defiance in the ques- 
tion. “An’ will ye tell me, what would we be 
doing with a boycotted farm in this peaceable 
neighborhood?” 

Here Katty Shea turned about, and faced her 
companion with a hard, indexible eye. 

The pair who lounged at their ease ovefr a field 
gate that fine autumn afternoon were assuredly 
as oddly matched a couple as could be found 
within the Isle of Saints. Their very profiles, 
standing out in sharp relief against a hard blue 
sky, were so ludicrously different that their own- 
ers might reasonably have belonged to a sepa- 
rate period and race. Mrs. Shea’s aggressive 
“nez retrousse,” wide, excitable-looking nostrils, 
and loose, shapeless mouth, afforded a violent 
contrast to Mr. Money’s modeled nose and chin, 
his fine brow — broad and low — and the perfect 

( 3 ) 


4 


BEYOND THE PALE 


outline of his head and throat; in short, he was 
a singularly handsome young man, whose classi- 
cal features might have served as a model for 
Adonis; while those 'of his questioner would 
have made an admirable study for a good-hu- 
mored mediaeval gargoyle. Mrs. Shea was a 
squat, sturdily-built matron, wearing a scanty 
black skirt and a voluminous pilot coat ; her bare 
feet were firmly planted on her native soil, and 
her large, leathery hands grasped the gate with 
an air of grim possession (although it was no 
more ];ier property than the land on which she 
stood). A blue checked handkerchief — not re- 
cently from the wash — was carelessly knotted 
over her frizzy gray hair, and the bowl of a lit- 
tle clay pipe peeped slyly from her breast pocket ; 
her cheeks were ruddy, and her small, keen eyes 
shone with a mixture of malice and intelligence. 
So much for Catherine Shea, widow, tenant of 
a cottage, and the grass of three cows. On the 
other hand, Denis Money was about six-and- 
twenty; he had a slight, well-knit figure, set 
off to the utmost advantage by an admirable 
tailor — indeed, his whole get-up, from the toe 
cap of bis shooting boot to the tweed cap on his 
head, was studiously correct; and as he held a 
half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, and 
surveyed Mrs. Shea with an air of lazy ahiuse- 
ment, the pair might have posed as the two ex- 
treme types of the masses and the classes ! 

Young Mr. Money was thoroughly “fin de 
siecle’’ in one respect, and deeply interested in 
any new sensation or novel aspect of humanity. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


5 


and this battered old Irishwoman, with her pipe 
and her brogue, promised to afford him a rare 
experience. In the great drama of life, he had 
never as yet filled any role but that of a mere 
walking gentleman. To tell the truth, he greatly 
preferred the place of spectator, and, figurative- 
ly, to lounge at his ease in a stage box, while his 
friends, foes, acquaintances — or even strangers — 
played their little parts in tragedies, comedies, 
pieces of strong domestic interest, or slight draw- 
ing-room sketches. 

Denis Lorraine Money (to give him his full 
name) had been duly educated at Eton and Ox- 
ford, where he had chiefly — nay, entirely— dis- 
tinguished himself on the river or in the cricket 
field. If it was a lamentable truth that he gained 
no honors, he had made many friends — friends 
for life; these, nevertheless, although they deeply 
sympathized, did not share his intense surprise 
when idle Denis was ‘ ‘spun’ ’ for the army. Yes, 
the “result of all play and no work” rendered 
Denis for a time a bitterly disappointed, remorse- 
ful young man. Although debarred from the 
delights and excitements of “foreign service,” 
he was determined to see foreign countries, and 
roamed far afield, literally from China to Peru 
—adopting, like many another wealthy youth, 
the part of sportsman and sightseer in lieu of 
career or profession. He had twice sailed the 
inland sea of Japan, yet this was the first time 
this enterprising traveler had crossed St. George’s 
Channel. * But then J^pan is remote and fash- 
ionable, while the beauties of Ireland are, alas! 


G 


BEYOND THE PAF-E 


only appreciated by her own children. Despite 
the fact that Denis Money had seen many gor- 
geous and sunny lands, he was now gazing with 
gravely admiring eyes upon the scene before him ; 
for once his expectations were surpassed, though 
in the present instance they had not been ex- 
orbitant. It was a critical spectator, heir of a 
wealthy father, a society favorite and undeni- 
able ‘‘parti” who rested his elbows on the top 
bar of the gate in close proximity to the for- 
midable arms of old widow Shea. 

“I was told that there was a boycotted farm 
at this side of the hill,” he observed in a clear 
pleasant voice (an excellent thing in a man), 
“and I am anxious to see the most remarkable 
features of the country, as I am a stranger.” 

“The Lord knows ye are a stranger!” ac- 
quiesced the other emphatically. “Gentlemen 
with such elegant clothes — and boots,” glanc- 
ing at the latter enviously, “doesn’t belong to 
these parts.” 

“Then I suppose I have had my walk for noth- 
ing, and I gave a little beggar a shilling to point 
out the way, and he has sold me!” 

“Faix then it looks like it,” was the discoui- 
aging response. “Are ye from the Barracks in 
Bally bawl?” 

“No, I am not. Do you live near this?” 

“Troth an’ I do, and where else? There just 
acrost the road.” 

The young man turned deliberately, and, lean- 
ing his back against the gate, gravely surveyed 
her residence — a stone and mud-thatched cabin, 


BEYOND THE PALE 


7 


with two crooked windows, one at either side of 
the door. In front lay a pool of dark greenish 
water, in which a party of not too fastidious, 
ducks were disporting themselves. 

‘‘Do you reajly live there?” he asked, after an 
expressive silence. 

“Begorra I do! I came there a young mar- 
ried woman, and I’ve never stirred a toe out of 
that lone, desolate, island of a place this forty 
year. ’Tis there I reared five fine childer, ’tis 
there I lost my man. ’Tis there I’ll die, and 
likely soon, for I’m enjoying but poor health 
these times.” 

“You look uncommonly fit,” w^-s the unsym- 
pathetic rejoinder, “as hard as nails.” 

“Glory! ’tis little ye know! I’ve not a pick 
on me bones. If I was to rip off my jacket,” 
putting a ready hand to her throat, “you’ll soon 
see.” 

“Oh, never mind. No, I beg you won’t,” 
with a nervous gesture of dissent. “I’m per- 
fectly satisfied to take your word for it, ma’am.” 

“I am cruelly hard set,” she pursued, “just 
dying on me feet, a poor, lone, delicate widow 
woman. May be your honor would assist me, 
and give me the price of a cup of tay?” and she 
eyed him narrowly. 

His honor put a leisurely hand into his pocket, 
and slowly extracted half-a-crown. 

“Oh, then may ye have stores in heav^en!” 
she cried, with glittering eyes. “And ’tis your- 
self is the real handsome young gentleman, and 
the right soort. May be ’tis your lordship I 


8 


BEYOND THE PALE 


ought to be saying,” she added, with a wheed- 
ling grin. 

He shook his head with a touch of impatience. 

‘^And are ye nothing but just a common gen- 
tleman? I’m thinking yer an officer at laste, by 
yer clipped head. I’ve a nephew myself, in the 
Connaught Rangers.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you a second time, but 
I’m not even in the army. I suppose you rarely 
see a red coat in this part of the world?” 

“Not nearer than Ballybawl, but we had a 
few Highlanders down on furlough last year. 
On account of their petticoats, they made a 
variety and got great persecution.” 

The young man smiled, as he threw away the 
end of his cigarette, which was instantly bolted 
by an impulsive white duck. 

“Now, can I do anything for ye, dear?” in- 
quired Mrs. Shea, “for I’d be proud to oblige ye 
in any small way.” 

“Yes; tell me something about the neighbor- 
hood round here,” fig his hand toward the 
Vvdde spreading s. - ich lay beneath them. 

The prospect * : upremely beautiful like 

far-famed Kerrj , ’ ■ gal, or Wicklow. No noble 
forest-clad hills, deep purple mountains, silver 
lakes, or wild Atlantic-born seas; no brown strip 
of bog-land, or rushing salmon river, lay beneath 
them ; but a rich, deep valley, covered with wide 
stretches of pasture, and brightened here and 
there by yellow stubble and gorgeous autumn 
tints. The low sloping hills were heavily clothed 
in woods, from among which there occasionally 


BEYOND THE PALE 


9 


peeped a spire, a turret, or a great mansion. The 
rising ground on which the couple stood was the 
spur of a long range, barren, unreclaimed, but 
gay with furze and heather, and possessed of a 
certain wild inexplicable charm of its own; and 
over all the landscape lay a vague shadowy soft- 
ness — a dreamy golden haze, peculiar to autumn, 
and to Ireland. 

At some distance to the right of Mrs. Shea’s 
cabin were several cottages, and beyond them 
again the remains of an ancient castle or man- 
sion — a grim, weather-beaten skeleton, aged, 
stripped, abandoned, yet not lacking in a cer- 
tain personal if rugged dignity, although its 
empty ca^sements resembled eyeless sockets 
through which the wind (even on that silent 
warm October day) passed with a fretful whim- 
per. The more modern portion was almost but 
not entirely roofless, and appeared to be crum- 
bling away piecemeal ; faint traces of dilapidated 
garden walls, overgrown shrubs, and ruined sta- 
bling, were dimly visible; but the venerable 
square keep, hundreds of years older than this 
tottering mansion, still held its gray head 
haughtily to the stars— a landmark for many 
miles. 

“I suppose there is pretty fair hunting,” re- 
marked the young man. “It looks a, good sort 
of country.” 

“Is it fair hunting?” she repeated indignant- 
ly. “Sure an’ isn’t it the finest in all Ireland, 
or the world? In the saison there does be a 
power of sport. Two packs, no less, and of an 


10 


BEYOND THE PALE 


odd time the stag hounds. See, there, below 
the castle, is the best cover of all ; they knock 
a fox out of it at every draw, and bad luck to 
them same foxes, rearing families on my hens!” 

‘‘And who live in the big places I see here 
and there; for instance, the white house with 
a tower?” 

“Oh, just common low shopkeepers,” with 
inexpressible scorn. “Their name is Scanlan; 
they have plenty of lucre and impidence. Sure, 
all the rale ould gentry has gone out of the 
country.” 

“I suppose they had no choice — it was go or 
starve?” 

“ And how do ye make that out?” turning on 
him fiercely. 

“If all your money was sunk in land, and you 
got no rent— where would you be?” 

“In the law courts, av course,” was the ready 
answer. 

“Or, if your flock of ducks was not paid for, 
how would you like thatf" 

“No fear!” scornfully. “Mrs. Murphy, of 
Ballybawl, pa^^^s me a shilling apiece all round, 
and I take mighty good care not to lave me 
money after me; but as for rents and payments, 
what does a lovely English gentleman know of 
the like? Listen to me, darlin’. The land is 
for the people and she thumped her fist upon 
the top bar, “and should be had for the tax, and 
that’s heavy enough — what with poor rate at 
three and four pence, and county cess very high, 
’tis more than plenty, without talking of rent at 


BEYOND THE PALE 


11 


all! Come here to me now. Don’t be getting 
land and politics into your head; ye have to be 
reared and hand-fed on the Irish question, and 
you’d be bald, and blind, before you could un- 
derstand it.” 

‘‘No doubt you are right,” admitted her list- 
ener, with ironical humility. 

“As for the old stock, we have a few of them 
yet. There’s the Hares of Wilde Park — faix, 
there’s not much park now; and Sir Dermot 
French — terribly pinched, no hunters whatever 
— he attends the meets on his ten toes, and her 
ladyship goes to church behind an ass — they say 
as asses is coming into fashion.” 

“Possibly, in Ireland!” he acquiesced rather 
dryly. 

“Then the two old Miss Dwyers are shock- 
ingly badly off, they never see a sign of butcher’s 
mate from Christmas to Christmas, an’ they are 
that proud no one dar’ offer them a trout or a 
jack snipe; but the grandest come down of all 
is the O’Biernes, of Carrig, who owned the castle 
there and the whole side of the country. The 
last male heir — ’tis the truth I’m telling ye — is 
a little slip of a girl, without a second shift to 
her back, and li ving, I may say, on horses — ” 

“On horses?” he repeated. “Nonsense!” 

“Sure, don’t I know it well! — when me own 
sister is cook?” she retorted, with considerable 
heat. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. 

“Begorra, it would be hard for ye! and ’tis a 
long story entirely.. The O’Biernes were mighty 


12 


BEYOND THE PALE 


people in the time of the Danes, and went to ter- 
rible wars, and built forts and castles, and even 
ships, and some had their heads cut off, and 
more was hanged, and all went well till about 
a hundred years back, or, maybe, a hundred 
and twenty. They had no hand in the Union 
— God bless them ! — but they took to racing, and 
gambling, and every sort of divilment, and de- 
serted ould Carrig there,” pointing to the ruin. 
‘‘It was a great place wance, now the crows is 
flying through it! Some say they left their luck 
on its ‘ hearthstone ! The new house soaked up 
many an acre; still there’s a power of spending 
the thirty mile of country!” and she paused, 
and stared impressively at her listener. 

“Yes, if the rents are paid,” was the cool 
reply. 

“Oh, bedad, you are getting too crabbed en- 
tirely! However, between borrowing and cut- 
ting trees, they held on well, but the last old 
man, Brian, was a fright for spending! He ran 
clean and diver through the timber, and .the 
farms, ‘^.d poured out money like water. Och, 
when Mr. Gerald was born, the tierces of porter, 
the bonfires, the fiddling and dancing, and roast 
cattle, will never be forgortten. The O’Bierne 
Brian was a splendid gentleman, near seven foot 
high, and his teeth the finest i vor}" ! He gave 
great employment, kep’ hounds, and racehorses, 
and a coach-and-four and outriders, and God 
knows what, but it was the building destroyed 
him. He put a new pair of wings to the house, 
and ’twas them and the hot- water pipes finished 


BEYOND THE PALE 


13 


him! He borrowed here and he borrowed there, 
he borrowed from wan to pay another, and he 
had an easy-going notion that everything would 
shake itself out in the long run ; but for all that 
the mortgagees fell upon him at last and sold 
him out of house and home, and he died a 
broken-hearted old man in one of the keepers’ 
cottages.” 

' Here Mrs. Shea paused to take breath, and 
contribute a hurried sigh to the memory of de- 
parted greatness. Then resumed with redoubled 
vigor. 

“The next O’Bierne, Mr. Gerald, his son, 
made an offer to straighten things out, but it 
was no manner of use. He had married a little 
English girl, for all the world like a wax doll; 
she hadn’t a copper; she was reared poor, and 
she thought she had heaven by the neck when 
she married the heir of Carrig. Saints! but she 
made the money fly! Even old Brian himself 
was took aback! After he died, Mr. Gerald did 
his big best to pull up, but it was no good what- 
iver He was killed out hunting — accidental — 
purpose — some said; and he left behind him 
r. ho by and a wife. Oh, he was a nate and lovely 
young man! How did she ever live after him 
at all — at all?” and Mrs. Shea again paused, 
and gazed at Mr. Money with an air of tragic 
interrogation. 

“She married again, of course,” he answered 
placidly. 

“Ye’ve said it!” she exclaimed excitedly. 
“Polks made out that he took the family de- 


14 


BEYOND THE PALE 


struction so cruelly to heart that he had not the 
spirit to struggle, and he,” lowering her voice, 
‘‘just made away with himself when he saw re- 
ceivers over the property, and the old jewels and 
silver going every way. It’s not rightly believed, 
for the O’Biernes were terribly bould riders, and 
would face a horse at the gate of hell itself ; but 
anyhow Mr. Gerald was killed jumping a church- 
yard wall, and faix his widow made a real show‘ 
of herself, and let herself down altogether ; after 
being married to the O’Bierne of Carrig, Prince 
of Inagh — though he hadn’^a copper —to go to 
take up with a low, mane scutt, a common rap- 
scallion, like Matty Scully, the horse dealer!” 
Here Mrs. Shea paused once more to swallow 
her rising wrath. 

“ ’Tis true he kep’ her in comfort, silks and 
satins, a carriage and a buttons, no less; but she 
lost herself foriver, out of all society; but what 
could ye expect when she was English.” 

“Thank you, ” returned her auditor, with some- 
what angry emphasis. 

“She had no pride,” continued Mrs. Shea, 
totally unabashed. “No, nor no dacency what- 
ever; a good fire to warm her shins at, and a 
good dinner was more in her eyes than nations 
of dead and buried O’Biernes.” 

“To tell you the truth, I think she showed 
her sense,” observed Money, as he deliberately 
lighted another cigarette. “A live dog, you 
know, is better than a dead lion.” 

Mrs. Shea looked at him for a moment with 


BEYOND THE PALE 


15 


an expression of perplexed inquiry, and then re- 
plied with severe dignity. 

‘‘I don’t know much about live lions, glory 
be to God! but I can. answer for it that she got 
a rale cur. She died about six years back, 
shunned by all the quality, though I believe she 
made great offers to be visited. Some say she 
died of annoyance, others that it was the lungs. 
Howsomever she had a lovely funeral! Scully 
buried her alongside of Mr. Gerald, and among 
all the ould O’Biernes; av course she had no 
call tliere^ I needn’t tell ye — crowdin’ up her 
betters, and the vaults nigh full. When old 
Brian was put in, the}^ brought out, and buried, 
a whole stack of the grandest bones such as ye 
never see now. The splendid bones of them old 
O’Biernes, who was seemingly giants — ” and 
as she spoke her eyes actually blazed with pride. 

“I see that you think a great deal of the 
O’Biernes.” 

‘'Ay, I do so, though they are ruinated, and 
other folks lives in their home, and sits on their 
chairs, and ates at their tables, and looks at 
their pictures, and shoots their game. Oh, but 
Carrig is a mortial splendid place, ye can see 
the woods there to your right, stretching them- 
selves out over the whole country. Ay, and it’s 
gone from the O’Biernes forever. It was bought 
by the mortgagees as had the strongest grip on 
it— an insurance company; faix, they had fine 
assurance to lay a hand on' Carrig,” and at the 
mere thought her face glowed with anger. 
“They let it every year for sport and style 


10 


BEYOND THE PALE 


to English folk. The people that’s in it now 
are not quality at all ! J ust the purest dirt, that 
old Brian would not clane his boots on. Their 
Dame is Money, and it’s nothing but their filthy 
lucre that has set them up, in their bethers’ ele- 
gant fine place.” 

Denis Money’s brows knit, a momentary and 
angry light sprang into his eyes. After all, what 
was the use in flying out, he asked himself philo- 
sophically; a new and original opinion of them- 
selves did no one any harm. His slight start 
and change of countenance was completely lost 
on Mrs. Shea, who was being rapidly borne along 
on the current of her own eloquence — careless 
alike of rocks or shoals. 

‘‘And they have lashens of their namesake, 
and, bedad, they’d want it. Twelve mile of 
avenues to mind, and the house burns two ton 
of coal a day, so you may judge of the style and 
size ! However, these Britishers can’t be expect- 
ing to stand in the shoes of the kings of Ireland 
— for nothing!” 

“Do you live in this place all alone?” inquired 
Money, irrelevantly. 

“Well, then, I do not, yer honor. I’ve two 
little boys in regular work, and a little boy and 
a little girl in America, and I buried me poor 
Johnny — he was in service in New York, but he 
fell into a decline, and he came home unexpected. 
I was in the market one day, and when I got 
back I saw just outside the door a new shin- 
ing box, and there was Mary and Johnny — God! 
but he was awful bad, it^s a most deceiving dis- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


17 


ease, that consumption. The doctor he come, 
and he said, says he, ‘Give him plenty of eggs, 
and cream, and new milk.’ 

“ ‘Glory, is that all ye can do for him, doctor, 
jewel?’ says I. ‘Pm sorry to say it is,’ says he. 
Well, Johnny lay a good while, but one day he 
took a notion of getting up, and he asks for his 
shirt, and he calls for his pants, and he' strove to 
walk; but it was no use, it was just the restless- 
ness before death, and he fell back calling foi* 
me— an’ sure it was all I could do for him— let 
him die in me arms. Oh, Johnny, Johnny!” 
And suddenly she laid her head down upon her 
horny hands, and broke into loud, violent sobs, 
that shook the very gate. 

Denis Money abhorred emotional scenes; there 
was nothing droll or uncommon about this sort 
of thing, he felt excessively uncomfortable, and 
undecided what to do — to tender another half-a- 
crown was much easier than to offer sympathy. 
As he stood pondering the position, Mrs. Shea 
gradually recovered herself, straightened her 
back, dried her eyes with her headgear, and, 
turning brusquely to her companion, said : 

‘^Oome hereto me now! Ye was asking about 
a. boycotted farm; it’s there, that house beyant, 
living by itself; ye can see it if ye will give yer- 
self the trouble to turn your head.” 

He instantly complied, and noticed a solitary 
cottage with smokeless chimneys, that appeared 
half buried in furze. 

“I didn’t let on at fust,” she resumed, “till 1 
just made out what sort ye were, and now there 


18 


BEYOND THE PALE 


it is for ye,” speaking precisely as if she were 
making him a gift of the title deeds upon the 
spot. 

“And can you tell me anything about it?” 

“Is it me tell you?” in a key of querulous pro- 
test. “An’ who better? but come away inside, 
an’ I’ll explain the whole affair to ye, proper and 
complate.” 


CHAPTER TWO 

THE BOYCOTTED FARM 

The “Britisher,” who was eagerly absorbing 
many new ideas, accepted Mrs. Shea’s polite in- 
vitation with alacrity, and followed her into her 
residence— a low, smoky cabin, with an unev'en 
mud floor. 

He looked about him curiously, and was im- 
mediately sensible of a certain air of easy squalor 
and musty comfort. There were numerous fat 
flitches hanging from the rafters, a bright turf 
fire glowed on the hearth (with its inseparable 
companion, a brown teapot), a profusion of 
gaudy crockery adorned the dresser, there was 
a roomy settee, two chairs, a hatching hen, a 
naked-looking white pig, and a little mottled 
sheep dog, with a wall eye, who barked vigor- 
ously. 

“There’s no fear of the dog, ” explained Katty. 
“She’s of the old Carrig breed, and wouldn’t 
touch a gentlehian. Go to bed. Worry, ye divil! 


BEYOND THE PALE 


19 


She’s a cross little baste with strangers^. There 
was a man round here yesterday, playing the 
concertina, and faix she nearly ate the legs from 
under him,” As she spoke, Mrs. Shea hustled 
Worry into ‘‘the room,” and next proceeded to 
offer hospitality to her visitor, who, having de- 
clined in turn milk, porter, tea, and, finally, raw 
whisky in a mug, accepted one of the two chairs, 
and, lighting a cigarette to tone down the atmos- 
phere, prepared to give his undivided attention 
to the story of the boycotted farm. 

“ ’Tis ten years and more since it happened, 
though it seems to me like yesterday,” began 
Mrs. Shea. “There was always a sort of jeal- 
ousy about the land, poor as it looks; Kelly 
wanted it, but Foggarty had it, and conse- 
quently it . bred a kind of stiffness between 
them. Howsomever, time passed on, and bar- 
ring a few batings here and there, everything 
was quiet in these parts till one evening in Octo- 
ber, as it might be this time of year. I was sit- 
ting at the fire there, when I heard a dull tramp, 
tramp, agoing up the road, a slow, heavy 
march, as never bodes no good, and always 
gives me a coldness in the bones. Well, I peeped 
out, and I saw about twelve or more men with 
masks on their faces, and green baize jackets. 
They went straight on, and I got a sort of wake- 
ness, for I knew as something not right was 
goiug to surely happen. Then Bridgie Whelan 
came running in like a hare, to tell me that the 
hoys had been round looking for arms, and was 
gone up to Foggarty’s. Next morning about 


20 


BEYOND THE PALE 


six o’clock, we heard as how Thady Foggarty, 
God rest him,” crossing herself, ‘‘was dead, and 
the whole thing came out. 

“First and foremost, the chaps went to Rior- 
dan’s, who trated them well, then to Kelly’s, 
who trated them still better, lashens of whisky 
no less; from that they went to Foggarty ’s. He 
and his wife and childer were sitting round the 
fire, when in came the boys, with masks and 
guns, a whole houseful. Mrs. Foggarty uprose 
and offered them chairs, and milk, and every 
sort of nourishment, but she had no spirits — and 
Thady being a man of no distinction, never sus- 
picioned as they would hurt him; and he sat 
and he talked over the weather, and the saison, 
and the fairs ; at long last they made a move to 
go, and a little chap with a squeaky voice, as he 
got to the door turns and says : 

“ ‘Number Wan, do your duty!’ 

“But Number Wan never stirred. ‘Number 
Two,’ he bawls, and with that Number Two ups 
with his gun and blazes straight into Thady, 
where he was standing and smiling on the 
hearth. He fell down with a terrible groan, 
and they all walked out. Thady was shot mor- 
tally, about the body — awfully mangled with 
slugs and old nails; but his wife dare not go for 
help, or for the priest, so she put him on a chair, 
and happed an old shawl about him, and there 
he just bled to death — with seven small children 
crying around him.” 

“By Jove!” ejaculated Money, in a shocked 
voice. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


21 


“ ’Tis God’s truth I’m telling ye, and ye can 
see for yourself the mark of the blood on the 
hearth to this day,” continued Mrs. Shea grimly. 
‘‘No one ever found out who done it, but this 
I say — that it wasn’t over the farm’he was shot 
— but the poaching ! He was under ke^er, ye 
see, and had caught a couple of boys shooting 
and snaring, and why not?” she demanded with 
heat. “Didn’t God Almighty put birds in the 
air, and fish in the sea, and rabbits on the land, 
for the poor more nor for the rich? Will ye tell 
me what the rich wants with them at all? 
Aren’t they oursf^ 

Her visitor made no reply. He had his own 
opinion about poaching, which, under the cir- 
cumstances, he prudently reserved. 

“Well,” pursued Mrs. Shea (graciously ac- 
cepting silence for consent), “the wife was very 
bitter over it, and showed terrible ill will, and 
lived under police protection, and strove hard 
and did her big best to have a couple of the 
chaps hanged. She left the country years ago, 
and Kelly, begor! he got a fine slice !ic I Avi 
— the good land. Some thought as the 

boys whisky a-purpose to hearten i ;p for 
the shootin’, but no one knows the truth, and 
more folks does be very shy of the Kellys still. 
Howsomever, it would never do to be black out 
with them, and so I just pass them the time of 
day ; for the rest, all we can do is to lave them 
to God — and the police!” And having enunci- 
ated this pious sentiment, Mrs. Shea pulled out 
h r pipe, and began to smoke. 


22 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Money now consulted his watch, and, finding 
that it was getting late, rose and said, ‘‘Do you 
think I could see the place?” 

“And what, would hinder you, darlin’? I’ll 
put you on the road meself, and set ye past the 
farm ; tjjoth and there’s not much to see. Ye can 
go by the door, but sorra a soul takes that way 
after dark, though it’s a grand short cut; they 
do be saying as Foggarty walks.” 

“Walks!” repeated her guest. 

“Hants it!” she explained impatiently. 
“Isn’t it all wan? In an old shawl, with his 
face white and twisted, an awful terrifying 
specter! Old Tim Ratigan nearly died over it, 
though some say it was another sort of spirrit as 
was at Tim.” 

“Very likely Mr. Jameson’s spirit.” 

“No, dear;” and behind her hand she added, 
“Potheen, at first cost, too, for he run it him- 
self. He’s dead now, heaven be his bed.” 

Meanwhile the couple had left the cabin, and 
were leisurely descending the grassy boreen, 
between two high banks, clothed with furze and 
foxgloves. As they strolled along side by side 
in peaceful silence they smoked— one enjoying her 
little dudheen, the other his Turkish cigarette. 

“There it is, where you see the stone gap,” she 
explained. “Go straight on past the house, and 
keep over the hill till ye strike the coach road 
again; it’s yer shortest way. There’s that 
black cow of Ryan’s on the hill. If 5^e meet 
her, begorra, ye may as well hide; and there’s 
Paddy Pinafore, he is wan of the Foggartys, 


BEYOND THE PALE 


23 


and lost his raison when his father dost his life. 
He’s a cute enough madman, but he won’t 
harm ye; ’tis more like he’ll take a fancy to ye, 
like meself,” and she laughed complacently. 
“All the land ye see was wance the O’Biernes’, 
some say since the Flood, more say its enchanted 
and under a spell, and that the owners does be 
ranging round on horseback still, taking stock 
of the property. All I say to ye is this, if ye 
meet wan of them, whip off your hat, and pass 
no remark!” 

“All right. I’ll remember your advice. I 
suppose this is the gap?” inquired Money as 
they suddenly came to a standstill. 

“It is so. Well, good-by, yer honor, and safe 
home, and if iver ye are round here again ye 
will give me a look in, and have a cup of tay, 
won’t ye?” 

“Thanks,” was his cautious and non-commit- 
tal reply. 

“It’s many a day since I come across yer 
match in being such grand company; it’s easy 
seen as ye are rale quality — English though 3'e 
be; and now will ye tell me yer name, me dar- 
lin’ young gentleman?” ^ 

“Mone}" — Denis Money,” looking her straight 
in the face. 

“Oh Lord,’^ with a little stagger, “may I 
never sin this day, but this bates all. There’ll 
be no tay-drinking or visiting with me after that, 
I’m thinking. Well, what’s said is said,” shak- 
ing her head solemnly. 

“And I must say good-by for the present. 


24 BEYOND THE PALE 

Don’t be too down on the Moneys,” and, with 
a smiling nod, he sprang over the gap, and left, 
Mrs. Shea, for once in her life, totally at a loss 
for words! 

Denis Money crossed a barren field half cov- 
ered with whin bushes, and following a faint 
footpath came to a gate leading into a small in- 
closure. The inclosure was a mixture of yard 
and garden, and in the middle of it stood a for- 
lorn-looking cottage. The door was shut fast, 
grass and weeds grew against it, an eruption of 
greenish lichens had broken out over its face, a 
venerable fuchsia straggled wildly at one side. 
He peeped through a broken pane, and saw a 
dark, damp kitchen, with a sooty crook still 
suspended from the open chimney; there were 
even ashes on the hearth. The air of the place 
was that of a vault, a low complaining wind 
crept round the house — a wind that would fain 
weep. Certainly it was a most desolate spot, 
said Denis to himself as he turned away with a 
chill at his heart. He looked at the fields 
choked with furze bushes and weeds, the roof- 
less cart-shed and pigsty (these denoting that 
the Foggarty family were of a higher social 
status than Mrs. Shea, with her mere fiocks of 
ducks). There were the remains of the potato 
garden, and a queer little wattled summer-house, 
unquestionably the work of children. Two 
ancient goats, still tethered together, were now 
the sole surviving tenants of the boycotted farm. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


25 


CHAPTER THREE 
“wanted some ancestors” 

Warned by the lengthening shadows, Denis 
set forth at a brisk pace, for four long Irish 
miles intervened between him and Oarrig. As 
he walked he endeavored to straighten out some 
ideas which had been rudely presented to him 
by Mrs. Shea. This lawless old poacher woman 
— who claimed alike land and game ; told tales of 
murder, so to speak, illustrated on the spot, and 
talked with a serious face of enchanted estates; 
who, in spite of her detestable Socialist ideas, 
was a stern aristocrat at heart, found it impos- 
sible to pardon the late Mrs. O’Bierne for her 
mesalliance, and boasted vaingloriously of the 
very bones of the old family — was an entirely 
new study. The bones of the Moneys, where 
were they? Grandfather, grandmother, and 
mother were buried in Lancashire in a specially 
built new vault. There was no crowding; in 
fact, so far they were the sole occupants. Had 
he no ancestors? Of course he had. His 
mother’s people were the Lorraines of Lorme; 
and there was an impression that his grand- 
father, a wealthy Liverpool merchant, had good 
old Irish blood in his veins, even although he 


26 BEYOND THE PALE 

was what was called ‘‘a self-made man.” If he 
had begun life on very little, he had concluded 
his existence the owner of a substantial fortune, 
which his son Anthony had largely increased. 
Denis might have known what it was to lack 
those ancestors which seemed so important to 
Mrs. Shea, but he had never in all his life ex- 
perienced what it was to want money. And 
what are ancestors, after all? They can be 
bought; a pedigree costs a mere bagatelle! But 
who can purchase money? 

This was, as already mentioned, his first visit 
to Ireland; it was but forty-eight hours since he 
had landed on Kingstown pier, and, sad to re- 
late, so far he had not been favorably impressed 
by the country. It is true that the first view of 
the Green Isle from the deck of the mail boat 
had filled him with a mixture of surprise and 
admiration. He was unprepared for the ex- 
quisite scene, which, with every revolution of 
the engines, became more distinct. 

The grand sweep of Dublin Bay, the chain of 
blue mountains, the delicate white spires and 
terraces which were studded along the coast — 
Was this Ireland? Turbulent, troublesome, un- 
fashionable Ireland? Ten minutes later he was 
standing on the jetty watching with indulgent 
eyes the overpowering greetings of impulsive 
Hibernians, and purchasing the Dublin evening 
paper from long-haired Davy. 

Three hours by rail and an hour in the station 
brougham brought him to Carrig — “a splendid 
manorial and sporting estate,” vide the adver- 


BEYOND THE PALE 27 

tisements — which his father had recently leased 
for a term of years. By a yellow autumn moon 
he noted the impressive grand entrance, the far- 
stretching demesne, the thick laurel cover for 
cock occasionally bounc^ing the mile-long ave- 
nue. The house itself looked sufficiently majes- 
tic, and threw enormous black shadows on the 
cold white gravel sweep. The entrance hall 
was unquestionably ‘‘manorial,” with lofty 
domed roof, marble floor, rusty banners, suits of , 
armor, stands of arms, and a brave show of 
pikes and pictures. Denis glanced round and 
noted various gloomy inhospitable-looking por- 
traits, the formidable horns of the Irish elk, and 
an Irish harp hanging disconsolate above the 
mantel-piece. He felt himself not exactly awe- 
struck-^that was a sensation which it was im- 
possible for him to experience — but unexpectedly 
impressed. However, the familiar face of his 
father’s English butler, and the announcement 
that “supper was served in the little library, 
and that there was hot water in his room” soon 
turned his attention into other channels. 

The house party, so far, merely consisted of 
his father, his stepmother, and himself. 

Daylight exhibited a truly magnificent place, 
where there was no sign whatever of want of 
money, or decay. His father, who was ex- 
tremely proud of the property, showed him the 
great stable-yard, large enough to accommo- 
date a troop of cavalry, the orangery, and palm 
houses, the shady grounds, which covered at 
least forty acres, and were full of winding 


28 


BEYOND THE PALE 


paths, lovers’ walks, arbors, statues, sun-dials, 
and planted with rare and costly shrubs, now 
shedding their leaves. 

‘‘Splendid cock shooting, lots of pheasants,” 
said Mr. Money, senior., “The last owner was 
a strict preserver of game, and planted most 
of the covers. These old Irish families just 
poured out money like water. We are, so to 
speak, standing on gold, and I got the place 
cheap.” 

“Did you, sir? Well it is not cheap and 
nasty!” 

“No, indeed, and the status it gives in the 
county thrown in gratis. Carrig, like Windsor 
Castle, confers position, and I get the benefit of 
a long line of other people’s ancestors.” 

“What’s the good of that? We don’^t want, 
them,” remarked young Money rather loftily. 
“The shooting is far more to the purpose.” 

“They come in very useful, as you’ll see, my 
boy; all the elite of the county call here.” 

“I suppose the hunting is good.” 

“Yes, the cubbing will be in full swing next 
week. You’ll want horses, Denis.” 

“Yes, I shall — and I shall want wind.” 

“If you are not in condition, a couple of good 
long stretches will set that all right.” 

It was in consequence of this advice that young 
Money found himself at the present moment so 
far from home and duty; viz., the duty of being 
punctual to the moment at an eight o’clock din- 
ner. 

He had hoped (and more than half expected) 


BEYOND THE PALE 


29 


to come across some of the natives; to meet a 
pretty girl, to hear a witty speech; but up to 
the present the nearest approach to wit or beauty 
that the poor young man had encountered had 
been embodied in Mrs. Shea ! 

By this time he had nearly forgotten Mrs. 
Shea, and had covered two miles of rough track, 
the boreen now running over a wild unreclaimed 
bit of mountain, his thoughts running on hunt- 
ers and hunting, his weight, the chances of an 
open winter, the number of horses he would 
require, the number of days he would get per 
week — these items were being gravely weighed 
in his mind, when all at once he noticed a re- 
markable object coming rapidly down the moun- 
tain in his direction. A female, followed by a 
train of animals. She passed through an open 
gap and stepped boldly out into the lane, about 
twenty yards in front of him. 


CHAPTER FOUR 

ENCHANTED GROUND 

On closer inspection, the figure proved not to 
be that of a woman after all, but a powerful, 
long-armed, bareheaded, barefooted man. He 
wore a ragged tweed coat, corduroy knee- 
breeches, and an immense canvas bib, carried 
a heavy stick in his hand, and was accompanied 


30 


BEYOND THE PALE 


by two dogs (a setter and collie), three goats, a 
pig, and a one-eyed turkey. 

This modern embodiment of Robinson Crusoe 
halted deliberately in front of the stranger, and 
for about twenty seconds they stood surveying 
one another with the deepest 'solemnity. Rob- 
inson Crusoe’s hair and brows were almost lint 
white, his deep-set cunning little eyes were of a 
dull turquoise blue, his features were heavy, 
and the shape of his head left much to be de- 
sired. He seemed to be about twenty years of 
age, and an unmistakable lunatic. 

“This is my hill,” he called out in a gruff 
voice. “Do ye know that — what are ye doin’ 
on it after sundown?” 

“I was not aware that I was trespassing,” 
rephed Money in a mild, apologetic tone. 

“Well, now ye know it —and that it’s as much 
as your life is worth to be hereabout at this 
hour — ” 

“Why?” moving two steps forward as he 
spoke. 

“Is it why?” raising simultaneously his stick 
and his voice. “Bekase, for wan raisin, it’s 
Murphy’s land — that is in the daytime — and for 
another, it’s enchanted ground. Do ye suspicion 
who I am?” suddenly approaching his face 
so close to Money’s that their noses almost 
touched. 

“Yes,” instinctively recoiling, “you must be 
Paddy Pinafore.” 

Paddy’s countenance instantly underwent a 
hideous transformation, his eyes became almost 


BEYOND THE PALE 


31 


white, his face a deep blackish purple, as, with 
a savage scream of rage, he lifted his stick to 
strike; but, to his undoubted surprise, the black- 
thorn was wrenched from his grasp with appar- 
ent ease, and vigorously shaken in front of him. 
It was then his turn to recoil. 

‘‘How dar ye call me out of me name?” he 
stuttered breathlessly. “How soon ye lamed 
to copy them other blaygards — bad end to them. 
I’m Paddy Foggarty, Mr. Murphy’s herd — at 
six shillings a week — and turf.” 

“Oh, you’re Mr. Murphy’s herd, at six shil- 
lings a week and turf, are you? Then just sheer 
off a bit, Paddy Foggarty, will you, and take 
your company with you” (for the dogs and pig 
were inclined to be demonstrative). 

“There’s no fear of them — Sun and Moon, 
kape to heel — they wouldn’t harm ye,” now 
plodding alongside Money, who was once more 
steadily heading for home. 

“Why have you this string of animals at your 
heel^?” he asked. 

“They’d be lonely without me up beyant, and 
they are me friends. I’ll take you on as a friend, 
too, for I fancy the looks of ye, and better be 
me friend than me enemy,” with a wild, mad 
laugh. “Ye have a fine, strong, understanding 
eye in your head, like me own”; and on the 
strength of this piece of delicate flattery he 
added, “An’ now will ye hand me me stick, 
av ye plase?” 

“We’ll see about that by-and-by, Paddy,” 
swinging it vigorously as he spoke. 


3 ^ 


BEYOXD THE PALE 


‘‘Can’t give me back me stick, me darlin’ 
blackthorn, that was cut off the hangman’s tree; 
’tis the loveliest bit of wood in the world for 
bating out a man’s brains!” 

The present owner of this truly precious article 
walked on in silence. He was wondering what 
any of the men at his club would say were they 
to meet him, accompanied by this lunatic and 
his escort of assorted animals. 

“I’d no call to raise me band to ye,” whined 
Paddy; “but when any wan calls me that name 
I feel just blazing — sure ye wouldn’t like to be 
called it yourself, and moidered with the bawls 
of them childer along the road — give me me 
stick. ’ ’ 

“You shall have it when we are out on the 
turnpike,” replied Money cautiously. (Mistrust 
is the parent of safety; the dusk was falling, 
and to surrender the weapon in this lonely spot, 
to one who boasted of its capabilities for “bat- 
ing out a man’s brains” would possibly be to 
invite the experiment.) 

As Money and his companions descended a 
grassy slope the former was surprised to hear 
the sound of furious galloping ; something passed 
like a flash at the end of the lane, and he had a 
glimpse of horse and rider going at racing pace. 

He paused for a second, and listened .to the 
thundering of hoofs dying away in the distance. 

“Ah, sure ’tis only wan of the O’Biernes,” 
explained Paddy carelessly. “This is their land. 
They does be as fond of riding as ever, and cruel 
hard on horseflesh. Sometimes they has their 


BEYOND THE PALE 


33 


own, more times they hasn’t; and they take and 
knock twenty pounds off the price of a colt in 
wan night.” 

‘‘How do they manage that?” inquired 
Money. “What do you mean?” 

“I mane, ’tis many a job they’ve given me,” 
stooping to carry the turkey, for whom the pres- 
ent pace was somewhat severe. “I mane, as 
Denneen Conlan, at the back of the hill here, 
has his heart scalded with them! Ye see he 
rears and sells young colts for hunters, but he 
never handles them at all, and now and then, in 
the stable of a morning, he will find wan of his 
best long tails, as never was broke, trembling 
all over, with the wet print of a saddle on his 
back, scarce a leg under him, and dripping with 
sweat — signs on it he had been galloped half 
round Ireland during the night. Ye see, the 
O’Biernes were terrible fine riders in their day, 
and can’t give over — even where they are!” 

“Where they are! echoed Money in amaze- 
ment. “Where are they?” 

“Faix,” with a queer cracked laugh, “that is 
more nor I could tell ye. They are not above 
ground by rights; but when they were, there 
never was seen such a slashing, open-handed, 
splendid, royal family.” 

“By the way, Paddy, this is a curious sort of 
road; it seems to have no end. We passed that 
broken gate ten minutes ago.” 

“May be ye did,” indifferently. “It’s wan 
thing to get on this hill, another to get off,” re- 
plied Paddy, with a snigger. 


34 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Now, look here,” said Money, “no nonsense; 
show me the road at once. I’m not disposed to 
walk about here all night.” 

“Ye’re not!” in a key of surprise, giving the 
turkey a hitch. “Many’s the night I put in 
that way. Where are ye goin’?” 

“To Carrig.” 

“Oarrig House!” surveying him with sullen, 
wary eyes. “Then you’re wan of the lodgers, I 
suspicion. ’Tis let, I’m aware. May the divil 
sweep them old mortgagees! Well, ye took the 
wrong turn a while ago, but I’ll show ye where 
ye can strike the road, within the bawl of an 
ass,” and he diverged into a narrow path, 
crossed two fields (casually knocking down loose 
stone gaps for the convenience of his “friends”), 
and, within five minutes, stepped out triumph- 
antly upon the turnpike. 

“Well, here is your stick, Paddy,” said the 
stranger; “promise me you won’t make a bad 
use of it.” 

“I promise,” seizing it. “I’ll swear anything 
at all to plase ye! I’ll swear by the sowls of 
the old O’Biernes — unaisy though they be — that 
I’ll never raise it but on their orders. Go on 
round the hip of the hill, and there ye are,” and, 
without another syllable, he vanished. 

As Money turned away to follow the road he 
distinctly heard a sound of muffled galloping 
through the soft autumn air. The phantom 
who was so nobly mounted on a borrowed steed, 
and rode thus recklessly in the dtfek, had prob- 
ably seen many a quick thing with Herne the 


BEYOND THE PALE 


35 


Hunter, and at the mere thought young Money 
laughed aloud as he hurried on at a brisk rate — 
no longer hampered by the pace of pig or turkey. 
Over “the hip of the hill” the lights of Carrig 
came into view, blinking out among its dense 
black woods and shrubberies. Since he had 
quitted Carrig that afternoon he had tasted 
several new experiences: had stood on the scene 
of a murder, been nearly brained by Paddy 
Pinafore, had trodden enchanted ground, and 
heard with his own ears the frantic riding of 
its former proprietors. In short, the only ex- 
perience that had been spared to him was an 
interview with Ryan’s black cow! 


CHAPTER FIVE 

SHORT HISTORY OF A SHORT FAMILY 

This is the history and pedigree of the Money 
family. Their fortunes were founded by one 
Peter, who came to Liverpqol as a lad, with 
the clothes he stood in, a handsome face, and a 
fierce determination “to make his mark in the 
world!” Peter was sharp, industrious, and self- 
denying; and, although of Irish birth — a fact he 
studiously concealed — neither impressionable nor 
impulsive, but shrewd, silent, and secretive. 

He made his way slowly, but surely, from 
office messenger to clerk, and subsequently up 
all the well-known rungs of the ladder of com- 


36 


BEYOND THE FADE 


mercial success. In time he amassed a consider- 
able sum of money — the result of daring specula- 
tions on the Stock Exchange — became junior 
partner in the house, and finally amalgamated 
the entire business by marrying the sole child 
and heiress of the head of the concern. He was 
forty years of age at the time, a tall, upright, 
dignified man, with a long, dark beard, and 
stern, melancholy eyes. His handsome person, 
iron will, and reserved, almost saturnine, dispo- 
sition impressed most of his associates; while 
those of his own household held him in profound 
awe. 

Money, and the power which money gives, 
had been Peter’s god. To it he had sacrificed 
country, religion, love, joy, youth, and family 
affection. He was a great mercantile potentate, 
a town councilor, a patron of art, a merchant 
prince. None had ever heard him speak of his 
own country or people, no one had ever been 
ajSfectionately claimed by him as compatriot or 
schoolfellow; and not the most daring spirit had 
ever ventured to probe his past. He made no 
secret of the fact that he was ^‘a self-made 
man,” for the excellent reason that this item 
of his history was public property. But be- 
yond that there figuratively stood a blank 
stone wall defying all penetration. A cold, 
austere, undemonstrative husband and father, 
as years passed over Peter Money’s head and 
changed it from black to white, his rigidity 
unbent, his icy silence thawed. He spoke of 
Ireland, of his boyhood, and his dark eyes actu- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


37 


ally flamed as he described a run with the fox- 
hounds, a magnificent demesne, with red deer, 
a noble mansion full of superb heirlooms, stables 
thronged with blood horses, kingly hospitality 
for rich and poor! The whereabout of this 
splendid estate he never divulged, but his eager 
listeners snatched at these sketches, and filled in 
the picture to their hearts’ content. Their father 
was Irish, the scion of a distinguished family, 
who had cut him off as a lad for some boyish 
scrape, and he had risen entirely by his own 
exertions from an office boy to his present emi- 
nent position of wealth and importance; ever too 
proud, whether poor or rich, to seek for recon- 
ciliation — for this was his nature. His children 
felt a delicious glow of satisfaction in deeming 
themselves to be w^ell-born, not merely the heirs 
of a wealthy and even famous citizen, but the 
descendants of an ancient and noble race. They, 
however, were never suffered to. read those early 
pages of their father’s life, but undoubtedly he 
himself frequently turned over the leaves of that 
first volume, as he sat alone in his sanctum in 
the dusk, with his head bowed down upon his 
breast. It was thus that he was found dead; 
and the only clew to his early life and later 
thoughts was a shabby old scapular and beads, 
which were firmly clasped in his cold stiff hand. 

Thus Peter Money was gathered to his (un- 
known) forefathers He had died and made 
no sign,” and the lad who had come across the 
sea, in a Dublin cattle boat, with five shillings 
in his pocket, breathed his last in a palatial 


38 


BEYOND THE PALE 


mansion at Blundell Sands — full of years, 
honor, and riches. 

The saturnine, impenetrable millionaire died, 
and was buried (in a brand-new vault), and 
Anthony, his only son, reigned in his stead. 
He had received a first-class education, had 
traveled to please his father, taken a conspicu- 
ous part in the business (Money & Son, ship- 
owners and ship brokers) to please his father, 
and married — to please himself! 

By the time Anthony was thirty years of age, 
he was a widow’er with one son, his pretty, well- 
born, penniless young wife, having, alas! been 
killed in a carriage accident. Fifteen years later, 
he married for a second time a handsome, mid- 
dle-aged, strong-willed woman, with a large in- 
come, accruing from a patent sauce. She was 
as persuasive as she was strong-willed, and, after 
a time, prevailed upon Anthony to relinquish the 
shipping trade and to retire from business. 

‘‘What,” she' asked, “was the use of all his 
wealth, if he did nothing but go to office daily, 
attend meetings and boards, and slave like a 
colliery pony, as chairman-director, and head of 
a firm? Why not enjoy life, when he was com- 
paratively young, before he became fixed into 
one groove and — there fossilized?” Thus urged 
and exhorted, Anthony, who was accustomed to 
be ruled from his infancy, disposed of his shares, 
his establishment, his* steamers, and retired from 
the busy hum of Water Street to a fine country 
seat near the Dee. Here his energetic wife in- 
troduced him to many new pleasures. Hunting 


BEYOND THE PALE 


39 


and shooting he had always (moderately) en- 
joyed, but golf and bicycling were novelties. 
However, although once a shipowner, he stur- 
dily declined to yacht— or to keep a yacht. He 
was no eailor. 

His only son and heir, Denis Money, had, as 
already mentioned, failed for the army, having 
found rowdng, dancing, and cricket far more to 
his. taste than military law, topography, or even 
tactics. His tutor spoke of him as a smart fel- 
low, with plenty of brains, but incorrigibly idle; 
his contemporaries, as “a rare good sort”; his 
married lady friends, as ‘‘a dear boy”; and his 
father — who was excessively proud of him-^as 
‘‘a lazy, extravagant young dog.” He traveled, 
he shot, and hunted, in due season, and now he 
had at last arrived to spend the winter at his 
parents’ much vaunted “place in Ireland.” 

This “place in Ireland” had been Mrs. Money’s 
grand idea and special discovery, and had proved 
an unqualified success. Although the rent was 
high, it was nevertheless, so she averred, “great 
show for the money.” As for Anthony, he was 
a thoroughly happy man. Something in the air, 
and life, and scenery, seemed strangely familiar 
to his taste. In his heart a hitherto silent chord 
awoke, and responded to the beauty of a land 
that inthralls all her sons. Stranger, alien as 
he was, he already loved Ireland. This some- 
what narrow-minded, unimaginative, little En- 
glishman, with the spirit of trade in his veins, 
had more than once found an unaccountable 
mist rising in his eyes as he gazed upon her deep 


40 


BEYOND THE PALE 


green valleys, glittering lakes, and dark melan- 
choly mountains. What was it that tuned his 
heart to receive thus the influence of his sur- 
roundings? Why did the soft humid air ex- 
hilarate his spirit like old wine? 

Anthony Money was secretly intoxicated with 
the grand position of feudal chief — a position the 
tenant of Carrig was invariably called upon to 
assume. He had no sentimental objection to 
wearing the shoes of dead men, and, as he filled 
them to the best of his knowledge, already he 
and the ‘‘Mistress” were well liked. 

How had they discovered Carrig, for it lay 
fap out of the faintly-beaten tourists’ track? 
Mrs. Money was told of it by a certain Miss 
Hare from Ireland, as they sat basking together 
in a hotel veranda at Mentone, inhaling the scent 
of carnations and orange flowers. The perfumed 
air, whispering to Kathleen Hare, reminded her 
of the orangery at Carrig, and aloud she ardently 
wished — 

“That some nice, rich, popular English peo- 
ple would take the dear old place, and lead the 
county.” 

“To lead the county !” What a delicious idea. 
Mrs. Money figuratively seized upon it on the 
spot, and searchingly cross-examined the bloom- 
ing, impetuous, shabby Irish girl — who was only 
too pleased to be called upon to describe her own 
neighborhood. She drew the residents, especially 
the nobility (oh, artful Kathleen, had your Irish 
simplicity seen through your wealthy ques- 
tioner?), in glowing colors. Every one was 


BEYOND THE PALE 


41 


delightful, she declared, but alas! every one 
was poor; there were half a dozen fine old 
places, all adjoining; you could driv^e miles 
and miles beside demesne walls, but most of 
the houses were not kept up. They were far 
too expensivre to maintain in these days, but 
Carrig was always in perfect order, and was let 
every year. So eloquent was Miss Hare that on 
their return home Mr. and Mrs. Money went 
over to Ireland on a little tour of cautious in- 
spection. Carrig spoke for itself. They secured 
it at once, and their place in Cheshire (where 
they had not led the county) was immediately 
advertised to be let or sold. Cheshire had been 
too near home, the big social magnates were 
clannish and haughty, and Mrs. Money had con- 
stantly assured her husband that they were 
thrown away in their vicinity, and urged him 
to seek fresh fields and pastures, where they 
would both be properly appreciated. 

It was quite true, as Miss Hare had distantly 
hinted, that Carrig conferred social status upon 
all its inmates— even . to the scullerymaid, who 
graciously condescended to the upper servants 
of a lesser establishment. Yes, the most exclu- 
sive were compelled to open their arms to who- 
soever reigned at Carrig, for it was a well-known 
circumstance that no one could rule there in com- 
fort whose income was less than twenty thousand, 
a year. 

For six months Mr. and Mrs. Money h^d dis- 
pensed hospitality, charity, patronage. The 
county approved of them and their efforts to 


42 


BEYOND THE PALE 


win their goodwill; also of the fact that they 
had one son, grown up, presentable, and — un- 
married.. Even those of the former regime, ac- 
customed to the old order of things, were good 
enough to admit that the new English tenants 
of Carrig ‘‘might have been worse.” Although 
now a grand seigneur, one or two business habits 
still clung to Anthony Money — he was most pain- 
fully punctual, and expected his household to 
keep pace with this virtue. He was orderly to 
a fault, and nearly drove his valet mad. His 
books and papers were arranged as by rule, he 
kept an exhaustive diary, and no one ever ap- 
plied to him for pin, match, pencil, knife, or 
hour, in vain. His punctuality and neatness 
were occasionally sorely tried by his son Denis, 
as, for instance, at the present moment, when 
he stood before the fire, with the tail of his coat 
in one hand and his watch in the other, impa- 
tiently awaiting his arrival! 

As he stands, Anthon}^ Money shall be 
sketched. About fifty-four years of age, a 
short, spare, active man, wearing evening 
dress, and a neatly curtailed black beard, 
freely sprinkled with gray. He has small, 
welbshaped hands and feet (of which he is 
aware), an abrupt, impetuous manner (of which 
he is not aware), a pair of truly kind brown 
eyes, and a heart to correspond. 

“What the dickens has become of Denis?” he 
demanded of his wife, who, in a gorgeous tea- 
gown, reclined in a sofa corner devouring a 
society paper. “It’s on the stroke of eight.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


43 


“I expect he has lost his way,” she calmly 
replied. 

“Wh}^ did he go out alone? I could j;iave 
taken him on the car.” 

‘‘He wanted exercise to get into trim for hunt- 
ing, and went for a tramp of ten or twelve miles. 
Oh, hunting always rouses him.” 

“Yes, I expect my bankers’ account will suffer, 
and the prices will rouse me.” 

‘ ‘ Lady Bundoran called to- day, ’ ’ observed Mrs. 
Money, in a tone of ladylike exultation. 

“Did she? Time for her,” rejoined her hus- 
band, pulling his beard, and secretly well pleased, 
for the Countess of Bundoran, the “Grande Dame 
par excellences^ ^ who resided but fitfully in Ire- 
land, had hitherto not deigned to bend the light 
of her gracious countenance upon the new ar- 
rivals. However, so many people with handles 
to their names had sought the acquaintance of 
Mr. and Mrs. Money that he, whose visiting list 
in Cheshire had not even included a baronet, 
was now, we perceive, becoming quite saucy, 
and simply stroked his beard at the mention of 
the countess’s visit, and scornfully exclaimed, 
“Time for her! Were you in?” he added, a lit- 
tle anxiously. 

“No. I wish I had been; the Marchioness of 
Salthill was with her— her aunt, you know. You 
remember her at the hunt ball at Chester?” 

“Yes. Rude old harridan!” suddenly flush- 
ing at some disagreeable reminiscence, “pre- 
tended I was a waiter. What brought her?” 

“Oh, here we are grandees,” waving her 


44 


BEYOND THE PALE 


paper airily at the lofty walls. “There we were 
—retired merchants, suburban — snobs— scum!” 

“She was the snob. What can have brought 
her?” he repeated. 

“Lady Bundoran has three daughters. The 
eldest is decidedly passee. She has done, sea- 
son after season, Ascot, Cowes, Scotland, and 
all that — ” 

“But what in heaven’s name are you driving 
at? What has Lady Bundoran’s daughter to 
say to us?” 

“We — have— a — son,” she explained expres- 
sively. 

“Oh, by George, yes, and here he is!” as at 
that moment Denis, the recreant, strolled in, 
slowly unfolding a scented handkerchief, and 
looking right well groomed, and right well 
pleased with himself. 


CHAPTER SIX 

DENIS IS WARNED 

“Oh, Denis at last!” cried his stepmother. 
“We were thinking of sending down to the po- 
lice station to make inquiries, and having the 
dinner gong beaten on the roads. Where have 
you been, my dear boy?” 

“Lost, lost, lost! I wonder I ever arrived at 
all. I’ve been wandering over the hills and far 


BEYOXD THE PALE 


45 


away. I’ve been in another planet. I’ve been 
in Fairyland!” 

‘‘There, there,” cried his father irritably. 
“Your adventures will keep! The soup can- 
not wait. Come along to dinner. Next time 
you are late you had better arrange to dine in 
Fairyland!” 

And Mr. Money gave his arm to his magnifi- 
cent wife and led her in to dinner. They dined 
in an immense hall, as imposing as it was spa- 
cious, furnished and wainscoted with oak, and 
hung with several huge battle pieces, and not a 
few family portraits, who seemed to glower down 
with sour disdain upon the three interlopers, who 
sat at a round table (a mere island in the vast 
expanse), loaded with silver, flowers, and shaded 
candles, and were waited on by four men. Mrs. 
Money was ostentatious, and as fond of pomp 
and display as the great Napoleon himself — to 
whom she bore a curious personal resemblance. 
Her pale olive complexion, bold clear profile, 
with its resolute mouth and square jaw, stood 
out cameo-like from the dark oak background, 
and might have belonged to the sister, or cousin, 
of the celebrated son of a Corsican advocate. 
Her hair was black, her eyes dark and search- 
ing, her figure a little thick; she wore a crimson 
velvet tea gown, with white satin petticoat, em- 
broidered with gold paillettes ; it only lacked the 
golden bees to be a royal robe of the First Em- 
pire. In a faint, feminine, contracted form, Mrs. 
Money’s resemblance to Napoleon the Great did 
not conclude with her profile. 


46 


BEYOND THE PALE 


She was boundlessly ambitious, strong willed, 
arbitrary, and, figuratively, marched over all 
obstacles to her strategical point — unmoved by 
pity, remorse, or fear. Luckily for all, her aims 
were harmless, her campaigns bloodless. Car- 
rig had been her Austerlitz ! Here she had car- 
ried the battle of position and social acknowledg- 
ment. In good time her life’s object, the summit 
of her desire, would be crowned, when Denis, her 
dear stepson, her hope, her pride, married into 
the peerage, and she called the daughter of a 
duke by her pet name ! She could manage An- 
thony, for he had never asserted himself, either 
as a son or husband. Would Denis be as ame- 
nable? Denis was different, and had his own 
ideas; she had to reckon with his mother’s race 
— an unknown quantity. Their good and bad 
points, their hereditary virtues and failings, 
were but dimly guessed at through giddy, 
mercurial Denis! Denis, who was the center 
not merely of her ambition but of her affec- 
tions! 

Denis was light-hearted, kind-hearted, fond of 
seeing the world, fond of sport, not averse to 
flirting, nor indeed to any amusement that was 
thrown in his way, naturally simple in his tastes 
— a mere boy in many respects; but neverthe- 
less Mrs. Money had once or twice caught a 
glimpse of his son — the man. 

Although she prided herself on her gift of 
penetration, she was not sure that she quite 
understood Denis. Underneath that gay, sunny 
aspect there might lurk a depth that she could 


BEYOND THE PALE 


4 ? 


not fathom; for instance,' a rocky will. How- 
ever, she had not sounded that as yet. Denis 
was a puzzling boy, grave about trivial things, 
trivial about grave things. Of one thing she 
was certain; he had never been in love! Pos- 
sibly he might be spared the experience. He 
was too merry, too lively, too full of the “joie 
de vivre” — in short, too restless to enable the 
little god to take effectual aim! 

Nevertheless he must soon marry. “There is 
a tide in the affairs of men,’' and the tide that 
would float Denis Money into the “matrimonial” 
dock was rolling in with long, slow, but irresist- 
ible billows. 

Ml’S. Money had a small, if we may call it so, 
“preserve” of eligible and choice young lady 
friends, chiefly picked up at watering-places, 
hotels, and on the Continent- portionless young 
plants, matchless sprigs of nobility and beauty. 
This fair “garden of girls” she assiduously 
cultivated by correspondence, invitations, so- 
licitude, and kindness. She trained, pruned, 
transplanted, forced! And it was out of this 
rare collection that she intended to select a 
daughter-in-law — a wife for Denis. 

These exquisite specimens were to be ex- 
hibited one at a time, and she was resolved 
to entertain a series of brilliant house parties 
all through the winter. Mrs. Money was an 
excellent hostess, a kind, considerate mistress. 
She gathered, as far as was possible, the former 
employes of the estate about the garden and 
stables— ay, the maimed, the halt, the old — and 


48 


BEYOND THE PALE 


even within doors the first footman, a grave 
young man of thirty, with shaven face and im- 
passive manners, was the son of an ancient re- 
tainer. His father had been chief seneschal and 
butler, and had spent his best years at Carrig. 
Mrs. Money possessed a purse ever open to the 
call of charity, a pleasant manner, a handsome 
presence. What wonder that the new mistress 
of the ‘‘big place” had won her way to the 
goodwill of both rich and poor? 

“How did you enjoy yourself, Denis?” in- 
quired his father, when his heart had been 
warmed by excellent soup and sherry. 

“Capitally, thank you! I went over the hill 
— or is it a mountain? — at the back, and got into 
another parish, if not another world,” and he 
proceeded to give a brief sketch of his adven- 
tures. 

“Ghosts, murderers, enchantments, lunatics, 
and spells,” exclaimed Mrs. Money, with a 
comma between each word. “Oh, you lucky 
boy. Why, I have been here six months, and 
never come across anything thrilling.” 

“Who would believe that we were within a 
few hours of the roaring ’buses of Piccadilly, 
much less that we had a telephone in the house? 
It sounds as if we had dropped back into the 
Middle Ages.” 

“Not at all,” put in his father. “You merely 
dropped down into the wild side of the country, 
where the people are another race.” 

“And speak another language,” said Denis. 
“I called out to an old man in a field to ask my 


BEYOND THE PALE 


49 


way, and he jabbered back at me for five min- 
utes in an unknown lingo — I thought he was 
mad.” 

‘‘No, indeed, the poor fellow was merely ad- 
dressing you in his native tongue.” 

“I suppose one can get along without it over 
here; English is understood?” he asked with a 
smile. 

“English is understood — but not the English 
people,” rejoined his father emphatically. 

“I admire the Irish language,” said Julia, “it 
sounds like Spanish ; I am sorry it is dying out. 
The people — real natives of the soil — are rather 
interesting, and so delightfully courteous.” 

“I wonder if you would consider Paddy Pina- 
fore interesting and courteous. If he is not mad, 
my mind must be giving wajL” 

“Oh, Paddy is our local lunatic,” explained 
Mr. Money. “He has marvelous power over 
animals, and some wonderful cures for cattle. 
He is a combination of vet., herd, earth-stopper, 
and fairy doctor. EolJ^s go to him for miles 
around, bringing sick or unruly beasts. Ani- 
mals are not the least afraid of Paddy — which is 
more than can be said of his own species. There 
is a little mystery about him— no one knows 
where he lives — and mystery breeds awe. How- 
ever, as far as I can judge, he is as harmless as 
a fiy, and I must confess that he made a won- 
derful cure of one of the carriage horses.” 

“How was that?” inquired Denis. 

“The brute seemed to go suddenly crazy in 
the stable, the vet. could do nothing; and some 


50 


BEYOND THE PALE 


one suggested Paddy — the fairy doctor. You 
will laugh to hear that I called him in. How- 
ever, he did not condescend to appear, but sent, 
with instructions, three bottles by messenger. 
The contents of one to be rubbed all over the 
beast, of number two to be poured into its ears, 
number three emptied down its throat.” 

‘‘And the result?” 

“A complete cure. She fetched you from the 
station yesterday.” 

“I shall certainly employ Paddy,” said Denis. 
“He will be invaluable in the hunting season, 
when one has given a horse a grueling or a sore 
back. I noticed that there are several large 
places about, and I suppose some good covers?” 

“Well, yes. Th6 covers are a sure draw, but 
one or two houses are empty or practically so — 
the owners played out, or extinct. There’s 
Creeshe, a beautiful spot, dropping to pieces. 
I believe the two Miss Dwyers live there — on 
potatoes and porridge, sooner than part with 
their heirlooms. They speed their day polish- 
ing and dusting their old silver — a famous col- 
lection. I don’t believe they have a penny in 
the world beyond what they make by letting the 
lawn, rearing turkeys, and doing needlework, 
yet they possess two or three thousand ounces 
of silver, worth twenty shillings an ounce. 
They would starve rather part with a spoon!” 

“Is it a good neighborhood, Ju?” asked Denis, 
turning to his stepmother. 

“Yes, not bad. We lunch with the Scariffs 
to-morrow, and you will see some of the peo- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


51 


pie. Lady Scariff was once a celebrated beauty. 
She is very energetic; she hustles the whole 
country.” 

“Are there any pretty girls?” 

“Yes, we have one or two belles — such com- 
plexions, like peaches^ like milk and roses or 
strawberries and cream!” 

“You are making my mouth water, Ju. 
When shall I see them — to-morrow?” 

“Look here, Denis, my boy,” put in his 
father, “none of your philandering, platonic 
love - making, note - writing, hand - squeezing 
humbug ov^er here. People in Ireland don’t 
understand that’ sort of thij^g. You are eifher 
in love, or you are not. There is no interme- 
diate state, nothing,” now joining his square 
finger-tips together and speaking very deliber- 
ately, “between a soul devouring flame and icy 
cold indifference. If you play any tricks with 
the simple affections of any of our beauties you 
will surely get the worst of it! You will find 
the Irish parent a terribly emphatic personage. 
Take my advice and leave Irish girls alone.” 

Denis, who was smoking, looked gravely at 
his father’s solenjn face and wagging beard. 
What a preacher he would have made; he only 
wanted a surplice. 

“How do you know that they will leave me 
alone?” he asked with a lazy smile, as he 
knocked the ashps off his cigarette. 

Mr. Money contemplated his flippant off- 
spring with a pair of stern dark eyes. Well, 
he must admit that he was a deuced good-look- 


52 


BEYOND THE PALE 


ing fellow. J ust the sort to interest a girl, and 
steal the first affections of a simple little coun- 
try maiden. 

'‘Of course, I’m only joking, sir. I’ve come 
over here to hunt, not to play the fool. Take 
notice that I give my lie^rt over into Ju’s keep- 
ing. Ju, mind you lock it up in your jewel 
safe.” 

“An empty offer, my dear Denis.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you haven’t got aoy heart for me 
to keep. It has been all chipped away till noth- 
ing remains. You gave your last bit to Flprry 
Carson.” • 

“Granted. But perhaps I shall grow a new 
one over here in this funny country, where peo- 
ple are said to be all heart — it’s catching.” 

“I don’t think it is at all likely. There must 
be a predisposition to take infection.” 

“What about your horses, Denis?” asked Mr. 
Money, suddenly. “You’d better sea about them 
at once. I suppose you will hunt seven claj^s a 
fortnight.” 

“About that.” 

“I shall want a couple myself, the armchair, 
elderly gentleman style. There’s a dealer who 
lives about three miles away — between this and 
Scariff, an ill-conditioned ruffian, but a well- 
known man for keeping the best of cattle. You 
might look over his stud to-morrow afternoon.”* 

“The sooner the better, sir.” 

“Ride over from Scariff after lunch. Ulick 
Doyne will take you. The hunters are said to 


BEYOND THE PALE 


53 


be well bred and broken. A girl, a mere child, 
his daughter, trains them — a nxarvelously plucky 
rider.” 

“Pretty, of course!” 

“No, ugly,” with'" elaborate emphasis. “A 
white-faced, determined looking little devil.” 

“Oh, Anthony, wbat a description,” cried his 
wife. “I’ve seen her in church — a meek, harm- 
less little creature.” 

“She ought to be at school instead of schooling 
horses. She has the most wonderful hands on 
a bridle, the}" say — and can hardly hold a pen.” 

“Who knows but that maybe a boon and a 
blessing to her,. poor creature,” remarked Mrs. 
Money, standing up as she spoke. ‘ ‘ Come along, 
you have smoked quite enough; Denis, you and 
I must have our usual game of piquet,” and she 
trailed away in her magnificent tea-gown followed 
by the two obedient men. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 

SOME OF THE COUNTY. 

The arrival of wealthy Mr. Money’s only son 
(and heir) had not been lost upon the neighbor- 
hood. Lady Bundoran organized a dinner in 
his honor, while Lady ScariJff postponed a lunch- 
eon party in order that he might be present. She 
had two nieces on a visit with her — and eligible 
young men, alas! were rare. * 


54 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Even Kathleen Hare had spent three whole 
days in composing and sewing a bright green 
velveteen blouse for the occasion — first impres- 
sions were so important. Poor Kathleen! He 
remembered the blouse whfen he had forgotten 
you, so frightful did he esteem it. 

The Hares of Wilde Park had descended in 
the world — but only a few steps so far. They 
had not come down with one ruinous crash like 
the O’Biernes of Carrig, nor fallen into miser- 
able poverty like the Dwyers of Creeshe, much 
less abandoned their old home in despair, like 
the Connells of Cion Lara, now known as Race- 
hill. 

Mr. Hare served on the grand jury; he was 
a J.P. and Deputy-Lieutenant, his son was in 
the army, and his daughter — it is the women of 
the family who generally feel the first pinch! 
Kathleen made most of her own dresses, wore 
cheap gloves, no longer subscribed to a library, 
traveled third-class (when far from home), and 
had seen the last of maid and saddle horse. 

She was a bright, clever girl, full of spirit, 
aye, and family pride. She showed a bold front 
to the world, was a capital manager, there was 
.no sign of shabbiness or stinginess about the 
house and gardens at Wilde Park, and people 
little guessed how hard the young mistress 
worked early and late to bring about such sat- 
isfactory results. Her father talked incessantly 
of “bad times,” of curtailed income, of poverty, 
precisely as if he was within a step of the work- 
house; but he had still his usual little comforts. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


55 


his club, his ‘‘Times,” his excellent tailor, his 
season ticket on the railway, good cook, and in- 
cessant cigar. 

He was a trim, meek (looking) little man, a 
diffuse “raconteur,” a shameless gossip, with 
a pair of twinkling eyes that noted all the holes 
in every coat save his own. 

By half -past one o’clock the luncheon party at 
Scariff Castle was in full swing. 

We observe Lady Scariff, a petite, vivacious 
woman with snow - white hair, beautifully 
dressed, and brilliant dark eyes, clever, ener- 
getic, intriqiiwite^ an eager manager of other 
people’s affairs. Lord Scariff, silent and learned, 
with a long head and melancholy nose. He was 
much more interested in ancient Egypt than in 
modern Ireland, and was hungering at the pres- 
ent moment, not for more roast pheasant, but for 
the last volume of the “Mission xlrcheologique 
du Cairo.” Mr. Hare, Mrs. Vance (Mr. Hare’s 
niece), a dashing, full-sized young lady in a per- 
fectly cut gown and a smart French toque (which 
exhibited almost every known color and yet 
seemed quiet and ladylike : the combination had 
cost ten guineas, and poor Mr. Vance was only 
a struggling tea planter in Mysore. Oh, fie! 
Mrs. Vance). There was Lady Marion Beleek, 
Lord Bundoran’s eldest “girl” (who had bicycled 
over), rapid, reckless, honne enfant^ in a neat 
Norfolk jacket and skirt, sailor hat, and pince- 
nez. Two Miss De Braynes, Lady Scariff ’s re- 
cent importations, hien coiffee, Men corsetee, 
conventional, critical, and prepared to be either 


56 


BEYOND THE PALE 


amused or shocked, according to their company. 
Already they and the Hare ladies had taken a 
most inveterate dislike to one another, although 
they had 'not exchanged a single word — merely 
glances. Mr. and Mrs. Money, the latter more 
imperial than ever in velvet and sables, her eyes 
and her diamond rings seemed to illuminate the 
whole table. Denis Money, an officer from the 
Barracks, Captain Montague, and Major Mont- 
fort (who was at home on leave staying for a 
few days with the Hares, his cousins) ; last, but 
not least, Ulick Doyne, Lord Scariff’s son and 
heir. 

There was a loud buzz of sustained conversa- 
tion, from which we gather such remarks as: 
“Land at prairie value” ; “Immense chine silk 
sleeves”; “Confirmed wind sucker”; “and or- 
dered back to the Curragh,” before sitting dowm 
to listen in a business-like manner. 


“Well, Mr. Money, and what do you think of 
Ireland?” inquired Mr. Hare, who was making 
an excellent dinner. 

“Don’t you think it’s rather soon to offer an 
opinion as I’ve only been three days in the coun- 
try?” 

“What about first impressions— eh? Well, 
I’ll not press you; we Irish gentry are a dying 
out. race, and you are only looking on at our last 
struggle.” 

“And what is the cause of this general col- 
lapse?” inquired Denis. 

“Oh, every one you ask will give you a differ- 


BEYOND THE FADE 


57 


ent answer; but, as far as I know, there are a 
hundred reasons for the one result. Eh, my 
lord?” now appealing to his host, and, indeed, 
recalling him from that ancient land — the meet- 
ing-place of East and West. 

Lord Scariff looked up and nodded his head 
impatiently. He knew as little about the ques- 
tion, perhaps less, than , his keen-faced butler, 
who was offering him potatoes. But then he 
was well up on Egypt, and could speak with 
authority on Coptic inscriptions, the conditions 
of the grain trade in the days of the Pharaohs, 
and the excursions of Herodotus. 

‘‘Reckless imprudence, insane extravagance 
and display” (it was truly delicious to hear these 
expressions from “thriftless Tommy”), “specu- 
lations, misfortunes, and the great famine. The 
change began then; thousands of rich lost their 
income, and thousands of poor their lives; heavy 
family charges have ‘ water-logged’ many estates ; 
it was ‘after me, the deluge,’ with a vengeance. 
Absenteeism has much to answer for, and the 
Union, which gave Irish gentry a call to Lon- 
don and a taste for London life ; steam had a 
hand in it, too, people got away all over tjie 
world, and found other countries more to their 
liking, more life, more fun, more employment — 
went away and never came back.” 

“A good country to live out of,” said Denis, 
helping himself to sauce. “So I’ve heard — only 
heard,- mind you!” 

“Oh, many’s the lie you will hear about poor 
Ireland. Agriculture is at a very low ebb. How 


58 


BEYOND THE PALE 


can we compete with foreign wheat and frozen 
cattle? We represent, so to speak, one great 
farm, we have little or no manufactures, no 
coal or iron. The root of our poverty is foreign 
competition, and, I say it boldly, free trade; yes, 
and I say more; let Irishmen combine, and sink 
their differences, and let them not tamely stand 
by and see the bread taken out of their mouths 
by Americans and Germans.” He paused, looked 
ac^’oss at Miss De Brayne for applause, swallowed 
a mouthful of Burgundy, and continued.. “Wages 
and wants have increased, the whole aspects, re- 
quirements, and characteristics of the country 
have altered since society was based on the po- 
tato!” (Denis had considered his father a loss 
to the pulpit or platform, but he was nothing to 
this man.) 

“Paddy in knee breeches, the comic Paddy — 
if he ever existed — dancing jigs, faction fight- 
ing, and driving pigs, is no more. His son is a 
solemn person, who travels, wears a tweed suit, 
a Waterbury watch, and reads a daily paper — 
not forgetting the betting lists and the Stock 
Exchange. Instead of being driven, the pig 
now drives. I saw one coming from the fair 
yesterday, cuddled up in a cart alongside of a 
pretty girl, as comfortable as a ‘bug in a rug!’ ” 

At the last sentence Miss Agatha de Brayne, 
who had been a scornful listener, stiffened with 
disapproval, and positively glared upon Mr. 
Hare, who, serenely unconscious, continued. 

“Ah, yes, old Ireland is changed; we have 
reformed for the worse!” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


59 


“I am sincerely sorry -to hear it,” exclaimed 
Money, “for I have always understood that Ire- 
land was the land of pretty girls, witty men, and 
famous horses.” 

“Oh, as for the horses, they are in the coun- 
try, and I daresay we could show’ you a pretty 
girl or two stilly and while as to the wit” — he 
paused and smiled with coy complacency — he 
was thinking of himself. 

“I’ve not heard one joke since I arrived.” 

“Only three days ago; my dear young man, 
you must give us time.” 

“Maybe Mr. Money is one of those unfortu- 
nate wretches we hear about that can’t see a 
joke,” put in Mrs. Vance, with a flash of her 
matchless teeth and eyes. She was seated next 
to Major Montfort, and, judging by his low “ha, 
ha’s,” had kept him well entertained. ' 

“As for horses,” continued Mr. Hare, “wait 
till you see what Matt Scully can show you. I 
say no more.” (His daughter Kathleen, who 
was placed on Denis Money’s right hand, most 
ardently wished that this would be the case.) 
“He keeps nothing but the best; a finer judge 
never stood; though he is a holy show in the 
saddle, he goes about with his eyes open — no 
one ever got to the blind side of him in a bar- 
gain! He picks up good-looking long tails at 
about twenty pounds, puts them in hard con- 
dition, breaks them— faith! he has the finest 
breaker in the whole world, and one that does 
not cost him a halfpenny — and then, bedad! sir, 
he sells them as made hunters, for two or three 


60 


BEYOND THE PALE 


hundred guineas. He got four hundred "for a 
horse at the show last August; I know it for 
a fact,” 

‘‘He must be a rich* man.” 

“He ought to be; a fair farmer, a grand horse 
dealer, but he dabbles on the turf and the Stock 
Exchange, and I am inclined to think that he 
has been badly hit once or twice.” 

“ We can all sympathize,” put in Ulick Doyne. 
“We iiave all been there.” 

“Speak for yourself, Ulick — and more shame 
for you.” 

“And you can speak for me too,” said Lady 
Mary. “I came a regular howler at Leopards- 
town.” 

“Anyhow Scully has a pack of low connec- 
tions, jockeys, and blacklegs,” pursued Mr. 
Hare. “I’m not saying a word, mind you, 
against jocks as a class. I know half a dozen 
with beautiful hands and clean ones; but Bully 
Scully is in with a different lot.” 

“Bully — is that his name?” asked Denis. 

“Yes, and well deserved. As sweet as new 
milk to you or me^ a terrible fellow at home, 
or in the stable yard. A dog whip, an empty 
decanter, or even a pitchfork, comes ready to 
his hand ! ’ ’ 

“My dear daddy,” protested Kathleen, who 
had long been chafing at seeing him entirely 
monopolize her partner, “do let us have a pleas- 
anter topic than Matty Scully ; he is a horror, 
Mr. Money, and his womankind are to match. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


01 


I really do think that a little of his dog whip 
would do Tilly Scully no harm.” 

“Ah, now, Kathleen, women are always down 
on their own sex, and you are only joking. Talk- 
ing of jokes, Mr. Money, ’^continued her irre- 
pressible parent, “you’re saying you never heard 
a witty speech yet puts me in mind of a story I 
heard the other day.” , Here poor Kathleen al- 
most vstarnped under the table ; never again would 
she sit near her father at a luncheon party. “It 
was our parish priest. He saw a parishioner 
going into the public-house at Ballybawl, a car 
driver, and he calls out to him, ‘Paddy, wheie 
are ye going?’ ‘Into the house for a drink, yer 
reverence.’ ‘Then if you do, mind this — the 
devil is going in along with you!’ ‘Troth and if 
he is,’ said Paddy, unmoved, ‘he must pay for 
himself — for I’ve only the price of wan glass 
about me. ’” 

“That was Paddy Moone}”, of course,” said 
Mrs. Vance, eagerly, leaning across, as she 
spoke. “Wait till I tell you about him. The 
other evening I came home late from the station 
and took a cover car. It was pouring cats and 
dogs, and when I got to the door at Wilde Park 
I said, ‘Now, Paddy, which will you have, a 
pint of porter, or a glass of ptmch?’ ‘Well;’ 
said he, ‘since you are so pressing, miss. I’ll just 
be amusing myself with the porter while ye are 
making me the dandy of punch.’ ” 

“Doatie,” said Mr. Hare, “did you hear that 
Mr. Money finds that the Irish girls beat all 
description?” (an invention on the spot.) 


BEYOND THE PALE 


ij'l 


‘‘Hovy nice of him. Did you come by Cork, 
Mr. Money? I’m afraid you must have been 
kissing the Blarney stone, ”, making this accusa- 
tion with twinkling eyes. 

“Ah, sure you kSiow very well if he had,” 
said her uncle, “he would never be so simple, or 
so nice,” with a side wink at the young man. 
“Don’t let Matt Scully find that out,” he added 
impressively. “He is a sly old fox. , You are 
going over there after lunch with Ulick, I un- 
derstand.” 

Lady Scariff caught the last words, and said : 

“Evelyn and Agatha, run“away, my dears, 
and get on your habits; it’s past two o’clock. 
You can ride part of the way with Ulick and 
Mr. Money. Lady Mary, I hear that you and 
Captain Montague are going to bike back to- 
gether, and, Mrs. Money, I know that you have 
a long round of visits to pay. Kathleen and 
Doatie, I can drop you at the gate as I pass.” 
And having thus arranged every one’s pro- 
gramme, she rose and swept gracefully out of 
the room, driving all the other ladies before her. 

“How shockingly Aunt Gussie arranged the 
table,” grumbled Agatha to her sister, as they 
mounted the stairs together. “You and I sat 
on one side, divided by that idiot Uli5k, and 
that fearful Vance woman had Major Montfort, 
and the Bogtrotter girl in green young Money.” 

“She did not have much of young Money,” 
retorted the other with a sneer. “Her gabbling 
old parent absorbed all his attention; she never 
got in a word. Thank heaven, such fathers are 


BEYOXD THE PALE 63 

t known in our set.” And having offered her 
this morsel of consolation, she closed her 
droom door. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 
“miss jerry” 

In half an hour the luncheon party had been 
dispersed by their active hostess— she invariably 
managed everything in her own agreeable, arbi- 
trary fashion. The Moneys had driven otf in 
their victoria, Lady Mary on a white bike had 
flashed gracefully away, her landau was wait- 
ing, and she had just dispatched Agatha and 
Eveline, escorted by three, cavaliers, and fol- 
lowed bf a couple of grooms. Her nieces were 
admirably mounted; their saddles exhibited the 
latest improvements, their habits were the new- 
est thing out, and included the last invention in 
patent skirts; their hats were just right; collars, 
gloves and hair corresponded, and they looked 
like a pair of tailor’s fashion-plates as they 
moved slowly and stiffly from the door. Oh, 
unhappy fashion-plates! .They only rode be- 
cause it was the correct thing — the fashion.!-. 
Mild canters in the Row, accompanying strong 
flirtations — that was their idea of equestrian ex- 
ercise; and then these Irish horses were so ter- 
ribly excitable, and Ulick’s cob was all over the 
place — or did he do it on purpose? Ulick was 


64 


BEYOND THE PALE 


wildly implored by his cousin Agatha to ride 
behind — not to come near her; she, with shaken 
nerves, kept confidingly close to Mr. Denis 
Money, and made no secret of her fears; she 
thought that he looked as if he admired a 
‘‘womanly” woman. If so, his looks bewrayed 
him, for his one passion was riding, and he 
hated cowards. Even his companion’s unim- 
peachable turnout, her creaseless coat and per- 
fect tie failed to temper his scorn, though it was 
stified. What on earth did the girl mean by 
getting on horseback, if when her horse plunged 
a little she looked as if she was going to cry, and 
assumed the color of a suet dumpling? Hovv- 
ev'er, by-and-by Miss Agatha found her voice. 
She alluded to an approaching ball, to the pleas- 
ures of biking, and to his neighbor at lunch. 

“What a man! Oh, what a tongue!” 

“Yes, his name isn’t Brook, is it?” 

“No; why?” 

“Because he goes on forever. But I liked him 
all the same.” 

“I did not, I hate an elderly chatterbox,” she 
added, quite viciously. Then they proceeded to 
discuss last season in town, Henley, Hurling- 
ham, the popular plays, and pictures; and so 
the time and distance passed quickly enough 
until they found themselves at a large white, 
wooden gate. 

“Is this it?” asked Denis Money, as the lady 
drew up with a sigh of relief. 

“Yes. They say it is painted white that Mr. 
Scully may know it when he comes home intoxi- 


BEYOND THE PALE C» 

cated. This is Raceliill, as the place is' now 
called, because there is not a racecourse withi-i 
twenty miles.” 

‘‘Oh, and are you not coming in to see the 
horses?” inquired the young man. “Won’t you 
giye us the benefit of your opinion, Miss De 
Brayne?” 

Miss De Brayne knew as much about the 
points of a horse as she did of the composition 
of the fixed stars. 

“I should enjoy it of all things — I am so de- 
voted to horses.” She hated the species, and 
looked forward with joy to the days of motor 
cars and their utter extinction. “But you see 
Aunt Augusta would not approve. Mr. Scully 
is not quite a common man, and he has belong- 
ings who are such pushing creatures that if we 
only rode into the yard they would declare it 
was a ‘call,’ ” with a hard little laugh, “and 
there are all kinds of disreputable, horrible peo- 
ple about — jockies and bookies.” 

“In fact quite a den of thieves,” he said chaff- 
ingly. “1 wonder if I had better leave my 
watch and money with you?” 

“^To, no. But, joking apart, pray be careful. 
You may lose more than a watch,” with an ill- 
assumed air of banter. “Do ride over to lunch 
to-morrow or next day, and show us your new 
purchase. Major Montfort wants *a hunter too, 
but he says he is too heavy, and too hard up. 
He is riding the Hares’ carriage horse — poor 
man.” 

Major Montfort and her sister now joined 


66 


BEYOND THE PALE 


them, and after a few moments — during which 
the men were secretly impatient of the delay, 
and the girls secretly anxious to remain — the 
latter reluctantly trotted off, followed by a 
groom, and the former proceeded up the avenue 
to Racehill. Major Montfort was a tall, broad- 
shouldered man of five-and-thirty, a distant con- 
nection of the Hares, a distinguished soldier, 
unmarried, poor, nevertheless popular. He 
attended merely in the character of a looker-on 
and adviser, riding a brougham horse — an ani- 
mal with a will corresponding to Lady Scariff’s, 
and a mouth like a drinking fountain. Ulick 
Doyne had been at Eton with Denis, and was 
the gay, irresponsible heir to the shrunken 
Scariff estates. However, his clever mother- 
had his interests at heart, and intended to marry 
him to wealth and beauty. The trio rode be- 
tween neat wire palings, and a series of fiat, 
well-farmed tillage fields, and finally arrived at 
a heavy stone archway, on which was carved 
an imposing but time-worn coat of arms, with 
the motto so defaced that the only word legible 
was “Morte.” This gate led into an immense 
yard. The establishment appeared to be in 
apple-pie order, and on a much larger scale than 
Mr. Money had anticipated. There were long 
rows of neatly painted stable doors, with the 
orthodox horseshoe over each, a number of loose 
boxes, out of which protruded one or two lean 
inquisitive heads; there was a forge in full 
swing, and the whole place was encompassed 
by large rick yards and substantial hay stacks, 


BEYOND THE PALE 


or 


save on the north side, where stood a straggling, 
dilapidated gray house, commanding the entire 
premises, and where, from one particular upper 
window, Scully, half* dressed and unshorn, 
might every morning be seen and heard, bawl- 
ing, between threats and curses, his orders for 
the day. 

As Money swung back the heavy iron gate a 
wiry little man, in a long-sleeved waistcoat, ran 
out of a harness-room, with a polishing steel in 
his hand. 

“Hullo, Garry,” cried Ulick Doyne. “Is 
Mr. Scully in?” 

“He is. not, sir; but he might be about the 
place. Peter,” to a helper, “have ye seen him- 
self?” 

“No; I belave he’s gone to the town with 
Casey Walshe.” 

“See -that now!” exclaimed Garry, turning to 
the visitors; “but if it’s about a horse, maybe I 
could tell ye as many lies as another.” 

“Garry here is the head man,” explained 
Doyne to his companions. “Well, Garry, we 
rather wanted to see if you had anything to suit 
this gentleman,” indicating Money — “something 
about five years old, fifteen two to sixteen hands, 
sound, a stone over his weight, clever across 
country, a fiue, bold jumper, with a turn of 
speed— you know the ^ sort. ’ ’ 

“To be sure I do, ” emphatically; “as hand- 
some as paint, as well-bred as Orme, to carry a 
lady, draw a bicycle, to play on the JeW’s-harp, 
price moderate; ain ’ll we asked for that pattern 


68 


BEYOND THE PALE 


evejL’y day of the week and Sunday, bat we only 
sell them in large quantities, and thirteen to the 
dozen.” 

Money looked fixedly at the groom, an under- 
sized man of fifty, with a hatchet face and mo- 
bile mouth; his eyes, as he met the customer’s 
steady gaze, were as totally devoid of expression 
as a blank wall. 

‘‘I should not think that you were the means 
of disposing of many of Mr. Scully’s horses,” re- 
marked the former pointedly. 

“Well, maybe not; that part of the business 
is in better hands,” replied the other with the 
utmost composure, “and by jigs and reels, here’s 
himself, so you’re all right,” as at this moment 
two men clattered under the archway into the 
yard. 

The elder was presumably Mr. Scully— a stout 
individual, with a large, red, clean-shaven face 
glowing between a gray felt hat and a white 
neckerchief. He wore a shooting coat, very 
serviceable breeches and gaiters, and was riding 
a superb brown cob— fit to carry an archbishop. 
His companion was a remarkably lean person, 
who somehow reminded one of a weazel; his 
cunning little reddish brown eyes were sunk in 
an undeniably bloated countenance, he was got' 
up in irreproachable riding-gear, and mounted 
on a powerful-looking bay, who wore blue ban- 
dages on his forelegs, and was, in fact, that 
well-known veteran steeplechaser, hero of many 
unexpected victories, and still more mysterious 


BEYOXD THE PALE 


69 


defeats, known as “Pet Fox.” Pet Fox himself 
had a fine bold eye and an honest face (which 
was more than any one could say of the gentle- 
man who bestrode him). 

“Can I do auy thing for you?” asked Scully, 
in a loud, affable v6ice. “Oh, Mr. "Doyne,” 
taking off his hat. “Gh, I beg your pardon, 
sir; proud and happy to see you. Come to look 
round the hunters? Most welcome, and your 
friends as well. We are rather. low at present. 
I sent three to England, and sold six at the 
Show; but I have still some very nice work- 
manlike nags that you might care to see and 
try.” 

“Thi 3 is Major Montfort and Mr. Money — 
Mr. Denis Money, Mr. Scully,” explained 
Doyne. “He wants something to carry him 
pleasantly and well; you must do your best for 
him, as he is a friend of mine.” 

“Certainly, Mr. Doyne. Don’t I always do 
my best for every one? Here Dan, Peter, 
Garry, bring out Cherry and the Squire, and the 
Minx— yes, and the black colt — maybe,” sud- 
denly dismounting with a heavy lurch, “you’ll 
like to go over the stables and take your pick 
first;” to \yhich suggestion the visitors agreed 
with great alacrity. The stables displayed all 
the latest inventions in the way of sanitation 
and ventilation, and were really a picture, and 
appropriately filled. 

“You’d like to see them moving, I’d lay a 
fiver,” cried the proprietor, “and maybe throw 
your leg over one or two of them; for example. 


70 


BEYOND THE PALE 


that brown over there, with the grand quarters 
— the Squire.” 

‘‘Yes,” answered Money, “I must say I 
should.” 

‘?And I should not,” confessed Doyne; “I 
loathe and abhor strange animals. In me you 
behold a valuable curiosity': an Irishman who 
cannot ride.” 

“Ah, now, Mr. Doyne, be aisy; sure ye can 
ride as well as the best in it when you like. We 
have first-class galloping ground and several 
made-up leps,” continued Scully, addressing 
himself particularly to Money. “Where’s Miss 
Jerry?” turning sharply to Garry. “Now, 
what the — oh, begor — talk of the divil.” 

For at this moment a shrill yoimg voice called 
out: “Garry, ye omadthawn, can’t ye open the 
gate?” 

“Hullo, Jerry,” cried Scully, “what’s up 
now?” as in another instant a girl of sixteen, 
on an uncommonly hot, excited-looking thor- 
oughbred, dashed into the yard. 

“I can’t do anj^thing with her at all on this 
bit,”^she answered. “Garry, look here.” 

“This is Mr. Doyne and Mr. Money and a 
friend come' to have a look round,’’ explained 
Scully, as he scrambled back into his saddle. 
“So, whenever your bridle is quite to your lik- 
ing we. will go back with you, my dear.” 

^ His “dear” merely nodded, aiul gravely took 
in the three visitors, or rather customers, with a 
glance of very cool inquiry. 

“Miss Jerry” was not ugly — far from it, was 


BEYOND THE PALE 


71 


Denis Money’s instant verdict, and looked as 
thoroughbred as the magnificent animal she 
rode. 

Her features were most delicately cut — the 
nose straight, the chin rather square, the upper 
lip short and scornful, the mouth a pleasure to 
contemplate, but at this moment severely com- 
pressed. 

Hers were the real true and only Irish eyes. 
Deep blue, gazing out beneath long sweeping 
lashes, and firmly penciled, even black brows. 
Her hair was extremely dark, fine as silk, and 
twisted up into a tight coil, as thick as' a ‘‘sug- 
gawn” (hay-rope). Her complexion left much 
to be desired. Impossible tq guess at its 
natural condition, for it was as tanned as a 
boy’s from exposure to all weathers. It was 
chiefly to her eyes, her wonderful eyes, that 
Miss Jerry owed the individuality, expression, 
and beauty that were to be seen in her other- 
wise rather thin and colorless face. Her figure 
was slight, almost childish, but every line of 
her body seemed alive; her hands looked tiny 
(even in white woolen gloves); the wrists, how- 
ever, were bony, ugly, and unusually developed. 
She wore a very short blue habit (the skirt much 
patched), and a rusty sailor hat, but she sat her 
horse like some royal personage, and her atti- 
tude, her air of superb Belf-possession, actually 
confounded young Money. 

He could do nothing but stare, and stare, and 
stare; while the fidgety mare struggled violently 
with Garry, and flung her head about, tossing 


BEYOND THE PALE 


7;e 

great flakes of foam around as she sidled and 
backed here and there. Meanwhile her rider 
remained immovable, as serenely composed as 
if she were occupying some well-stuffed arm- 
chair. 

“Well, young one, are ye settled to yer liking 
now? Then right about,” cried Scully. “Garry 
and Peter, bring on them horses.” So saying, 
he led the way out of the yard, and began 
pounding down a muddy lane overhung with 
ash trees, whose falling leaves rained a heavy 
shower upon the troop of riders; viz., Scully, 
Jerry, the three gentlemen, Garry, the stable- 
man, and Mr. Doyne’s spick and span English 
groom. 

Through a gate on the right they turned into 
a large pasture, the first of a succession of fields, 
which exhibited a number of safe, well-made 
jumps — nothing to frighteh man or horse. 
There were hurdles, doubles, banks, and a 
couple of loose stone walls. 


CHAPTER NINE 

MATT SCULLY’S DOG WHIP 

“Give us a lead, Garry,” bellowed his mas- 
ter, as they filed through the open gate; and 
Garry, still coatless, riding the Squire, bustled 
forward and put his animal into motion. The 
handsome, self-possessed brown negotiated the 


BEYOND THE PALE 73 

fences as rapidly and neatly as if he had been 
a new species of large mechanical toy. He was 
eagerly followed by Money, on the Minx — a fine 
but flighty performer. Meanwhile, Major Mont- 
fort on the brougham horse, and Ulick Doyne on 
his cob, remained spectators ; also the old steeple- 
chaser, who, as well as his rider, superintended 
the business with solemn interest and the air of 
a professional critic. 

“Casey,” cried Mr. Scully, suddenly turning 
in his saddle, “will you have a shot?” 

But Casey merely shook his head, with a smile 
of scornful amusement, as much as to say, “Im- 
agine asking me to join in such child’s play,” 
although Pet Fox tossed his head impatiently, 
blew loudly through his fiostrils, and would 
•have been glad enough to share the fun. 

“Well, now then, Jerry,” said Scully, authori- 
tatively, “away you go.” 

“I don’t think I ever saw a handsomer mare,” 
remarked Money to Garry, as the chestnut sprang 
forward. “If she is half as good as she looks I 
shall buy her.” 

“And what use would she be to you?” asked 
the groom, with chilling contempt. “Sure ye 
could never ride her.” 

“The young lady — ” began Money. 

“Augh!” impatiently. “If ye think ye can 
ride like her, ye have a fine consate of yourself.” 

Meanwhile Jerry, with the chestnut well in 
hand, had taken the jumps at steeplechasing 
pace, and was now once more ranged up along- 
side the dealer. 


74 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“It’s as easy as kiss me band, you see,” he 
exclaimed complacently. “Bedad, too easy en- 
tirely. We will just jog into the far field, and 
show you some real fences. That filly,” point- 
ing to the chestnut, “is a wonder. She jumped 
twenty-two feet of a double yesterday, and 
never put an iron astray. Now, Mr. Money, I 
see the Minx is too meek and demure for you; 
change her with Peter, and ride Black Pat, and 
then you’ll know what flying in the air means. 
He is only four, and a bit raw still, but very 
eager and kind.” 

Young Money, nothing loth, now exchanged 
the Minx for a rather leggy, black colt of over 
sixteen hands. 

“He is not a bad shaped one,” remarked 
Case}^ condescendingly. “ But he has too 
much daylight under him, governor, to please 
me.” 

“ Arrah, will ye get out, Casey, and not be 
crabbing me horses,” cried the other, with a 
kind of playful ferocity. “Mr. Money, let me 
present you to Mr. Casey Walshe, one of the 
finest gentleman riders in the kingdom.” 
Money nodded, and Walshe raised one finger to 
his cap with an air of the deepest gravity. 
“Rode the winner in the Sefton Handicap at 
Aintree, won the Coningham Cup twice at 
Punchestown, rode — ” 

“Come, now, governor, spare my blushes,” 
he remonstrated, with a forced laugh. To tell 
the truth, his appeal was superfluous, his com- 
plexion being always one huge blush. An ex- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


75 


cellent rider in his day — a day now passed by 
several years — he had experienced more narrow 
escapes than most men, not so much from dan- 
gerous mounts and awkward corners as from 
the stewards. They had had him under sur- 
veillance for a long period, had more than sus- 
pected him on several occasions, but he had 
invariably escaped. It was a common saying on 
the Turf that “there was no better man to break 
a stirrup leather, be left at the post, or ride a 
punishing race — as it suited him — than Casey 
Walshe.’’ 

Latterly Mr. Walshe had, unfortunately, 
yielded to an unquenchable thirst for cold water 
and whisky — say a glass of cold water in a tum- 
bler of spirits —and was often drunk when the 
starter’s flag fell. He had completely lost his 
nerve — a fact which but few suspected, for he 
talked and bragged a good deal of the flrst-class 
mounts he had refused owing to bad health, and 
the imploring and piteous appeals he received by 
wire or post from this or that notable owner. 
But it was really a man with a shattered consti- 
tution, and an absolutely quaking coward, who 
sat the old steeplechaser, and scornfully superin- 
tended the “lepping.” 

“Before we go we must have a shy at the yel- 
low ditch,” said Scully, who spoke exactly as if 
he personally took part in these feats of horse- 
manship. “You lead the way, Garry. Give 
him a bit of a round first. Casey, of course, it’s 
only a potato furrow to you, but just clap your 
pride in your pocket for once, and oblige me by 


76 


BEYOND THE PALE 


putting the old one over it to show them all how 
it ought to be done.” 

“Thanks, no, governor,” with impassive dig- 
nity. “The Fox and I are quite satisfied to um- 
pire the performance.” 

“Your animal seems very hot and fidgety,” 
observed Money to the girl, whose mare was 
again tearing and snatching at her bit, and 
moving round and round, and up and down, as 
if the cool, short grass were hot bricks. 

“She’s put out, that’s all,” returned her rider, 
carelessly arranging a stray lock on the fiery 
creature’s mane. “She did not like her bit, and 
being brought out a second time, and she is 
always wild when she gets among a lot of 
horses.” 

The Squire now passed, at an easy swinging 
canter, his ears pricked, his hind legs well under 
him, and, sailing up to the yellow ditch and 
bank, he topped the latter with scarcely an 
effort. As Scully slapped his leg approvingly, 
Casey remarked : 

“Yes, and he gallops in good form; but to my 
eyes, governor, he stands over a bit. Sell him 
soon.” 

“That’s the animal for me!” shouted Ulick 
Doyne, with great enthusiasm. “A confiden- 
tial, easy-going gentleman ! What’s his figure. 
Matt?” 

“Two hundred. Now, Mr. Money, let us see 
what sort of a hand you’ll make of it.” 

Money wheeled sharply about, he and his 
steed being equally keen on going, gave the 


BEYOND THE PALE 




black a smart, unnecessary cut, and the pair 
went thundering down the field at a headlong 
gallop. 

“Too fast, too fast, man alive!” roared the 
hoarse, husky voice of Mr. Scully. “Thunder 
and turf, faith, ye nearly did it then.” 

The black, who had been too hurried to pull 
himself together, /had given one wild leap for- 
ward like a stag. Luckily for him, the top of 
the ditch was on a level with the next field, and 
he merely blundered on to his nose, and recov- 
ered with a flounder. 

“ ‘Nearly’ never killed a man!” cried Money, 
who was in boyish spirits, thanks to the keen 
autumn air, the young blood racing in his veins, 
and the young thoroughbred under him. 

“Who’s next? Come on, Doyne; don’t be an 
ass, it’s not as big as it looks. Then Montfort, 
you can ride,” to the other who kept far aloof. 
“Bring along old Julius Caesar,” alluding to his 
animal’s profile. “A man can die but once. 
Make room for the lady! Out of the road for 
‘Dancing Girl’!” screamed Scully, as at this 
instant the chestnut came tearing up, her rider 
sitting squarely, her hands well down. 

“What a determined little face,” thought 
Money, who confronted her across the obstacle. 

Quick as lightning the treacherous mare 
stopped dead short, and slewed round on the 
very brink of the ditch — which was wide and 
full to the brim of yellowish water. 

“Ah, ha! Is that the way with her?” roared 
her ownor, while Jerry trotted her back into the 


78 


BEYOND THE PALE 


middle of the field, and then once more put her 
at the fence, at a fast gallop. Even so, the ill- 
tempered and supple ‘‘Dancing Girl” again 
turned on the very brink, with extraordinary 
agility, and it seemed a miracle to Money that 
her rider did not go over her head, but retained 
her seat and balance. 

“It’s a first-class thrashing she wants,” 
bawled the dealer, whose purple face was nearly 
black with rage. “She has been working for it 
this whole week.” As he spoke he slowly pro- 
duced from the pocket of his riding coat a truly 
formidable dog whip — which he uncoiled with a 
vicious shake. 

“No, no, no! Oh, you know she won’t stand 
it,” pleaded the girl excitedly.* “Only let me 
try her just once more; I know she will take it. 
Please, please give her time.” 

“Time, indeed! damn you and your time! 
Do ye want to destroy her? I’ll teach her who 
is master here. I’ll cut her into ribbons,” edg- 
ing nearer and nearer. “I’ll fiay her alive!” 

“That’s right, governor,” screamed Casey, 
approvingly. “That’s right, lay into her well, 
whale her.” 

“Please, please,” urged a clear, piteous, girl- 
ish voice. “Don’t just this once — I’m — ” 

“Afraid, are ye!” roared Scully, making a 
sudden rush, and bringing down the whip with 
a savage lash upon the chestnut’s shining flank. 

•She stood stockstill, and trembled, for two sec- 
onds, as if she could not realize the indignity; 
then reared straight on end, in a manner that 


BEYOND THE PALE 


79 


was horrible to witness, twisted herself round, 
and bolted. 

She went away up the field, like some de- 
mented creature, the wind whistling past her 
ears, and made a dash for the open gate. 

“My God, she’ll be killed!” cried Money, 
while he watched the maddened brute approach 
,this critical point. Would she do it? Would 
she clear the stone piers? He caught his breath. 
Yes, marvelous to relate, she just shaved through, 
nearly lost her legs in turning, and with a clatter 
of frantic hoofs tore on to the. stable-yard. 

“Begor, he has done it this time,” gasped 
Garry. “He has flogged a horse once too often ; 
she’s a dead girl if the iron gate is fast. ” Money 
suddenly remembered a certain gate with spikes 
— and shuddered. “If not, the mare will brain 
the child in the stable.” 

Garry’s face was colorless, and rigid as the 
face of a corpse. He thrust* the Squire back 
over the ditch at a stand, followed by the sprawl- 
ing black, and this conversation took place as the 
two men raced neck and neck across the forty 
acres. 

“There’s no fear,” puffed Scully, who never- 
theless was scouring behind them with a some- 
what faded complexion. Also Major Mont- 
fort, galloping ventre a terre on the astounded 
brougham horse. 

Casey alone brought up the rear, holding his 
lean sides with suppressed laughter; but on this 
particular occasion he had the joke entirely to 
himself. 


80 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“No fear, no fear,” panted the dealer breath- 
lessly, as he scuttled up the lane. “She’s well 
used to these little adventures— naught was never 
in danger.” 

“I thought you’d a lesson, Matt Scully,” cried 
Garry, turning on him with a dangerous gleam 
in his eyes, “that time, not long back, when 
Lunatic fell on her, and broke her arm ! and, 
by the vestment, if harm — ” he paused. 

They were now in sight of the iron gate which 
separated the lane from the fodder yard. No! 
no still, limp heap, lay near it; no horrid spec- 
tacle of lifeless girl or struggling horse met their 
view. 

“Golly! If that chestnut devil ’asn’t cleared 
it,” cried Scully, as Garry dashed it open. “An’ 
there, didn’t I tell ye?” he added triumphantly, 
as they passed through and caught sight of a 
groom leading the runaway out of a stable. 
Jerry, white, but composed, still sat her, appar- 
ently unhurt, with her straw hat pulled far 
down over her wonderful eyes. 

“Deah grasthias,” exclaimed Garry, remov- 
ing his cap. “Are ye any the worse, acushla 
oge machree?” It was not once in five years 
that he was moved to utter his mother tongue. 

She shook her head impatiently, and looked 
hard at Matt Scully. There was something de- 
fiant and warlike in the slim, little, well-poised 
figure and sternly-set lips. 

“That’s a nice trick she played you!” re- 
marked the dealer, as he mopped his face with 
a huge red handkerchief. “Why didn’t ye keep 


\ BEYOND THE PALE 


81 


a better hold of her head?^’ he demanded, in a 
bantering tone. “What good are ye to let a lit- 
tle mare like that make such a holy show of ye?” 

“You know very well that -she has too much 
spirit to stand to be thrashed like a donkey,” re- 
joined the girl, with a sort of blue flame in her 
eyes. “If you want to get rid of us say so, and 
shoot us, but never do that again.” 

“No, not till the next time, me darlin!” with 
a hoarse chuckle. 

Money glanced instinctively at Garry, the 
groom, whose gaze was fixed upon his master; 
and he was positively startled by the pallid 
malignity of his features, as he listened to this 
conversation. 

“Well, now,” exclaimed Scully, briskly, “that 
you have taken the fire edge off the mare, and 
rubbed the conceit off yourself, we will go down 
to the fences beyond the white bog, and do the 
leps out of the well . field and the Holy Meadow, 
for these gentlemen must not be taking away 
too bad an opinion of my horses.” And in spite 
of Money’s ironical protest that they had “seen 
quite sufficient,” he jogged off at a sort of obsti- 
nate plodding trot, closely attended by Casey 
Walshe, and followed by Garry, Miss O’Bierne, 
and a couple of grooms. 

Major Montfort, wh6 with difficulty restrained 
Julius Csesar from dashing after the party (this 
was far better fun than trotting between shafts), 
said : 

“Well, I’ve had enough of it. I’m only a 
looker-on, but, on the whole, I’d rather see a 


BEYOND THE PALE / 


bull fight than a bullied .girl. I shouldn’t pat- 
ronize Scully if I were you, you chaps. What 
are you staying for?” 

“Pm staying on in the interests of the So- 
cieties for Prevention of Cruelty to Children and 
Animals,” was Money’s prompt reply. 

“Don’t mind him, Monty,” protested his friend, 
“he is ffierely staying on to have a deal. What 
does he care for children and animals?’"’ 

“And you?” 

“Oh, I’m just waiting to look after Denis, and 
see that he is not robbed!” 

“Well, I hope both of you will look after that 
unhappy little girl, and if you want any assist- 
ance, I shall be only too delighted to come and 
give Scully three dozen with his own dog whip.” 

So saying, he turned about the head of his 
sorely disappointed steed, and rode quickly out 
of the yard. 

The two young men glanced significantly at 
one another, nodded, and then trotted after Mr. 
Scully in dead silence. 


CHAPTER TEN 

PRESENTED BY MR. CASEY WALSHE 

The fences beyond tlie white bog were large, 
but sound, and the horses, Minx, Squire, Black 
Pat, and Dancing Girl, acquitted themselves 


BEYOND THE PALE 


83 


well — especially the latter, who now faced 
everything indiscriminately and jumped like 
a deer. 

“She cannot bear being left behind when she 
wants to go,” explained her rider, apologetically. 
“I had hard work to keep her back several 
times.” 

Yes, he remembered, and on his account, 
when, foolhardy and impatient, Black Pat had 
rushed headlong before her. 

“I’m glad you are none the worse for that 
very nasty runaway,” he said. “I was sure 
you would come to grief at the gate.” 

“Yes, it was rather a narrow shave; but I’m 
used to all kinds of marvelous escapes. They 
come off at least once a week; it’s all in the 
day’s work.” 

“How do your nerves stand it?” 

“Nerves!” with a faint smile. “I don’t know 
what they are. ” 

“Have you ever had a bad accident?” 

“No. I have broken my collarbone several 
times, and one . of my fingers, and,” after 
thought, “yes, and my arm.” 

“And still you ride as hard as — as ever, and 
are afraid of nothing?” 

“I’m not afraid. of horses, at any rate,” she 
answered, as she once more set Dancing Girl go- 
ing, and fiew a big double just in front of him. 

“As easy as kiss my hand,” he quoted, with 
a laugh, as he landed almost instantly beside 
her. They took a round of several fences side 
by side, and at last returned to the dealer, and 


84 : 


BEYOND THE PALE 


the base ot operations, with their horses some- 
what blown. 

‘‘Well, now, Mr, Money, I suppose you’ve 
had enough?” said Scully. “You’ve given Pat 
there a terrible bucketing, and done every fence 
except the Barony boundary, and that’s only fit 
for a kangaroo or a steeplechaser.” 

“I’m sure Casey will be delighted to oblige 
you,” suggested the girl, with a significant 
glance at Mr. Walshe. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! the poor old Fox ! ” he groaned. ‘ ‘ Ha ve 
you no respect ‘for his forelegs?” 

“No, none whatever,” riding boldly up to 
him. “If .you are feeling jll, just let me put 
him over — I should love it,” and she ranged 
alongside, calling out, “Garry, come here.” 

“Mind your own business, you young cat,” 
he muttered savagely, reining back several paces 
as if he was afraid that this audacious creature 
would seize forcibly upon his steed, and thrust 
him from his saddle. 

“Well, if you like to try the mare over it you 
can,” said Scully, with the air of one conferring 
an immense favor. 

“Ah! now don’t. Miss Jerry,” protested Garry, 
in a sharp key. ‘ ‘ The mare is done to flittergigs ; 
she couldn’t do it.” 

The only notice Miss Jerry vouchsafed to this 
anxious remonstrance was to put the animal into 
a stretching gallop, and head her for the bound- 
ary. 

The boundary was a fairly high and very 
strong wooden paling, bej^ond which lay a wide 


BEYOND THE PALE 


85 


ditch full of water; the taking-off was sound, 
springy pasture, but the landing was more or 
less boggy. The sight of a horse— much more 
horses — going over fences, is a spell that irresist- 
ibly attracts the Irish. From some mysterious 
source, even in that lonely spot, twenty people 
had collected as if summoned by a magic wand. 
There were men, women, children (including 
two infants in arms); most of these were 
perched about in trees like large crows, or 
posted on the railings, or any coign of van- 
tage, shouting remarks: — encouragement, praise, 
and blame — precisely as if the whole perform- 
ance had been organized for their amusement. 

Jerry settled her reins, squared herself; yes, 
she meant business. Was it possible, thought 
Money, as he also took hold of the horse’s head, 
that this girl, a mere child, was to show them 
all the way, and not a man — rapidly counting 
with his eye — out of six, dared to face the 
boundary? W'ere they all to be shamed by 
this chit? Not he, for one; he would follow 
her over, even if he broke his neck— a not im- 
possible contingency. 

“What!” bawled Scully. “You’re not think- 
ing of it.” 

“Oh, yes, but I am. We cannot leave the 
young lady to do it alone; I’ll be her escort.” 

“An’ will you listen to that?” screamed a man 
from the fork of a tree; “escort to the lady, no 
less! Mind yourself then, me bould young man; 
sure she’ll break every bone in your skin. • She’d 
ride the head off of the old wan himself ; sorra 


8G 


BEYOND THE PALE 


wan in these parts as much as sees the way she 
goes. Share, she’s the divil intirely. Isn’t she, 
Galloping Jerry?” 

‘‘Mind you, Mr. Money, you are going over 
that fence on your own responsibility,” roared 
Scully, “and if ye kill the horse, you’ll have to 
pay his full price.” 

“Done with you. If I kill him, I pay, and 
I—” 

“Oh, by the powers of Moll Kelly! here she 
comes,” interrupted a watcher from a low ash 
tree. 

The chestnut approached the boundary at a 
steady, sensible canter, gradually increased her 
pace, rose like a bird, soared over the rails and 
ditch of water, and landed like a feather amid a 
storm of shouts of “O’Bierne a boo” (O’Bierne 
forever), and screams, whoopings, and uproari- 
ous enthusiasm, from the spectators in the trees. 
It was now the black’s turn. He faced the rails 
willingly enough, devouring the ground with 
his long black legs, flew the rail, jumped short, 
and landed with a heavy flop and his hind legs 
under water, sending Money far over his head. 

“No harm done,” shouted his late rider, as 
he picked himself up, and the black, with a 
shame-faced air, scrambled to his feet. 

“Troth, then,” called out a Milesian voice, 
“ye wor the only man in it of them all. Forby 
Miss Jerry, and she’s a great girl entirely, and 
a credit to the ould country — if that Turk, bully 
Scully, doesn’t kill her.” 

The unfortunate flasco on the part of Black 


BEYOND THE PALE 


87 


Pat concluded the performance. Money, hav- 
ing remounted, rode up, and cordially congratu- 
lated Miss Jerry, and she, in her turn, showed 
him how they could go round without further 
incident and rejoin the rest of the party. 

“Oh, so here you are,” cried Doyne, accosting 
his friend, “and cosrered with mud and glory. 
I would not have faced that blessed boundary 
in cold blood under one thousand pounds. Those 
fellows in the trees were highly delighted— with 
you, eh. Miss Jerry?” 

“Poor creatures, they don’t*have much amuse- 
ment, and as far as I’m concerned they are very 
welcome,” was lier only reply as she and he 
trotted along side by side; for Mr. Money had 
attached himself to the dealer, who sold him 
Black Pat for eighty-five pounds, subject to a 
vet.’s opinion, and a luck penny. 

“He is a fine up-standing, good-natured slob,” 
said Scully, “and I know he will give you satis- 
faction. I’m selling him at half-price, as he is 
not liked in the yard, and they are anxious to 
get shut of him.” 

“Why?” was the not unnatural query. 

“Well, they are a superstitious crew, and they 
say he is not right. Some one forgot to say 
‘Bless the baste’ when he was foaled, and they 
think the fairies got him. Anyhow, he has no 
call to be that color — black without a single white 
hair; in fact, he is a fairy horse. But if he hasn’t 
a white hair, you’ll find he has generally a spare 
leg, and will carry you all day, every day, and 
the next day as well.” 


88 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Once more in the yard, Money dismounted to 
change horses, and Scully said: 

‘‘Now, sir, you must come in and wet the deal. 
I won’t take ‘No.’ Eh, Mr. Doyne, isn’t it the. 
custom over here?” 

“I’m a tea drinker at this hour,” protested 
Money, with nervous haste. 

“Ah, go along! Well, then. Miss Scully will 
give you a cup of tea and welcome. In with 
you, and you, Casey, fajx,” with a wheezy 
laugh, “you’re no tea drinker!” 

“No. I’m not one of your milk and water 
chaps,” with an insolent stare at Money. 

“The Dancing Girl is very warm,” remarked 
Doyne, patting her on her damp neck. 

“Ay, she has a hot temper,” said Scully. “I 
like a horse that has a bit of the devil in her; 
yes, and a girl too,” and he nodded up expres- 
sively at Jerry. 

“I think this is your daughter’s,” said Money, 
stooping to pick up a little silver brooch shaped 
like a horseshoe. “It* looks like Miss Scully’s 
property?” 

Scully grinned as he took it, and replied, “You 
mean my stepdaughter. She,” with a jerk of 
his thumb, “is not Miss Scully.” 

“Jerry, my girl, do. you hear that?” cried 
Casey, with odious familiarity. “Let me intro- 
duce you properly to this gentleman. Mr. 
Money, here is a young lady,” pointing his 
whip at her, “with the blood of all the royal 
families of Ireland in her veins — little as you 
would think it.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


89 


^‘Better nor some, that haven’t the blood of a 
hen,” interrupted a savage voice. 

“Hold your jaw, Garry. A princess in her 
own right, and divil a lie in it, whose ancestors 
owned tbe half of Munster, and whose last de- 
scendant does not own half-a-crown. Isn’t that 
the way with you, Jerry, my girl?” 

The girl’s pale grave face suddenly leaped into 
light and color ; the red blood raced to her very 
brow, her dark eyes blazed, and the jockey, 
noting Money’s expression of angry interroga- 
tion, hastened to add — 

“Mr. Money, let me present you to Miss 
O’Bierne of Carrig; Miss O’Bierne, this is 
Mr. Money,” a significant pause, “of Carrfg.” 

Money doffed his cap, but the young lady did 
not deign to notice the introduction save by an 
odd and presumably involuntarj^ trembling of 
her lips. 

With the name of O’Bierne the old woman’s 
tale came back . to Money in one flash. The 
scene at the gate, the history of the ancient 
family — the last of the line was this grave-eyed 
little girl, who lived indeed by horses, and, 
as far as he could judge, was likely to die by 
them too. 

How were the mighty fallen! Here was the 
sole representative of the great O’Biernes, who 
had built ships and castles, had made war, and 
held princel}" state — the butt of a coarse jockey, 
the unpaid rough rider of a detestable bully. A 
sudden and inexplicable impulse seized him. He 
went round and offered to assist her to dismount, 


90 


BEYOND THE PALE 


with as much deference as if she had been a royal 
princess. 

For a second she looked down at him with 
questioning eyes. No, he was not making fun 
of her, not “taking a rise out of her,” so she 
put a timid little hand on his proffered arm, and 
jumped lightly to the ground. 

“Hullo, Jerry,” cried Scully, “that’s some- 
thing new. Can’t ye get off your horse without 
help? Come along, gentlemen, follow — follow 
me, and we will see if Miss Scully, my niece, 
will stand us tea!” 

^ And as he spoke he led the way through a side 
wicket into a wide gravel sweep, in front of a 
rambling dilapidated mansion. As he walked 
up the steps to the tumble-down glass porch, he 
pointed exultantly to rows of built-up windows 
overgrown with ivy. 

“The billiard room,” he announced; “the other 
side, the ball room. It was a great place in its 
day, but we are only small people, and live in 
the corner of it. I put the stable into grand 
repair, and it’s my boast that old Matt Scully 
houses his horses ten times better than he does 
himself.” 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 

“a glimpse of an old love affair” 

The first thing the party encountered in the 
hall was an overpowering odor of boiled cab- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


91 


bage, diluted with mackintoshes and stale to- 
bacco. The second experience was a hasty 
glimpse of a buxom, black-eyed slattern, who, 
exclaiming ‘‘Oh, Holy Fly,*’ promptly disap- 
peared. 

The entrance itself was of sufficiently impos- 
ing appearance, lofty, spacious, and flagged with 
white and black marble; sev^eral tall solid ma- 
hogany doors (the bases of these much scratched 
by sociable dogs) opened in various directions. 
Under an ancient carved table were the remains 
of two dogs’ dinners; the fastidious creatures 
had left the greens and potatoes, but the neigh- 
borhood of the plates was strewn with the splin- 
ters of bones. The majestic but grimy walls 
were hung with cheap sporting prints, hats, 
whips, coats; aheap of car cushions and two 
carriage lamps were carelessly piled in one cor- 
ner on the floor ; a large oil painti ng of a plain 
young woman, with thick sirhpering lips, pow- 
dered hair, rnagniflcent pearl stomacher and 
necklace, hung in a conspicuous place; and 
the general impression conveyed a mixture of 
former splendor and present squalor. 

“Walk in, walk in,” urged the host, in a loud, 
hearty voice, and as he opened one of the great 
mahogany doors he added, “Tilly, here are some 
gentlemen come to ask you for a cup of tea,” 

There was a sound of a sudden mighty rush, 
as they followed the dealer into ,his drawing- 
room (caused, in fact, by Miss Scully, who with 
marvelous sleight of hand had tossed an old pet- 
ticoat she was renovating behind the piano) . As 


92 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Money filed in close to Doyne, he saw a rather 
good-looking woman spring up from a low seat 
and confront him; she had bright red cheeks, 
bright brown eyes, a wonderfully-frizzled black 
fringe; her mouth was large, but exhibited good 
teeth and a radiant smile. Miss Sculh" appeared 
to be about twenty-eight years of age, and wore 
a shabby plaid skirt, a soiled red blouse, a pair 
of -old tennis shoes, and an air of the utmost 
affability. Though intensely gratified by this 
unexpected invasion, she was secretly storming 
at her bad luck in not having had on her best 
blue frock and her new gilt bangles. 

“Mr. Doyne and Mr. Money, let me present 
you to my niece. Miss Scully. Now, haven’t I 
done that in proper style?” inquired the dealer, 
looking about him for commendation. 

Tilly shook hands (her hands were cold and 
red), and expressed her overwhelming joy. 

“Delighted to see any one in this benighted 
place,” sinking into a chair, with an easy nod to 
Casey Walshe. 

“Well, '^illy,” he cried, as he threw himself 
at full length on the sofa; “how do you find 
yourself? Going strong, eh?” 

Tilly merely showed her teeth as far back as 
the molars, and said, “Jerry, ring the bell and 
order tea.” Jerry obeyed, though Mr. Money 
had sprung up to anticipate her. 

Miss Scully, who was sincerely pleased to 
make the acquaintance of the Honorable Ulick 
Doyne, figuratively fastened upon him, and en- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


93 


gaged him in lively badinage, to which Matt 
Scully contributed what he deemed capital jokes, 
and C^ey Walshe.from his corner various rude 
personal remarks. Young Money, who found 
himself a little beyond the orbit of this 'brilliant 
mental circle, fell back, so to speak, upon the 
company of Miss O’Bierne, and endeavored to 
cultivate her acquaintance. 

“You will be glad of your tea, I am sure,” he 
remarked, as they seated themselves. While 
he spoke his quick roving eye noted the great 
bare room with three lofty windows overlook- 
ing a melancholy pleasure ground. It was a 
nobly - proportioned apartment, the walls and 
ceilings marvels of old stucco work, the floor 
of polished oak, half-covered by a gaudy carpet; 
two long spotted mirrors (fixtures in the walls) 
proclaimed themselves the remnants of better 
days, and were kept in countenance by a mag- 
nificent white marble chimney-piece. The rest 
was cheap vulgarity. What had been in former 
times Lady Bryda Conr^elTs white saloon was 
now Miss Tilly Scully’s tawdry drawing-room 
— and a very tasty retreat in her own opinion. 
Had she not lavished “her pocket-money” on a 
gay screen, a pair of pink paper lamp shades, 
yellow muslin art curtains, and several sight-de- 
stroying chromos? The piano back was draped 
with the late Mrs. Scully’s opera cloak; there 
was, moreover, a chiffonniere, a sofa, half a dozen 
bulging, untidy basket chairs, and a large round 
table. On the latter Money noticed several 
penny novelettes, a paper of peppermint bull’s- 


^ 94. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


eyes, a brass thimble, a vase of faded flowers, 
and a pair of curling tongs. 

“Are you fond of reading, Miss O’Bierne?” 
he asked, rather suddenly. This girl, so full of 
life OM horseback, was surprisingly grave and 
silent now. 

“Yes,” following his glance; “but not those. 
They belong to Miss Scully.” 

“What sort, may I ask? These?” and he put 
his hand on a neatly-arranged pile of volumes in 
quaint, old calf .bindings. 

“Those are borrowed. I am just about to 
return them.” 

“May I look?” Scarcely waiting for permis- 
sion, he turned them over and glibly read aloud 
the titles. 

“ ‘Evenings at Home,’ by Mrs. Barbauld. 

“ ‘Moral and Literary Dissertation on Truth 
and Faithfulness. ’ I should not think that was 
particularly lively. 

“ ‘Hervey’s Meditations. Date 1 810. ’ Rather 
stale now, eh? 

“ ‘True Stories and Anecdotes of Young Per- 
sons, designed, through the medium of example, 
to inculcate principles of piety and virtue ! ’ Good 
Lord, do you mean to tell me you’ve read this?’" 

“Yes,” with an unexpected smile. “And don’t 
you hope that it will do me good?” 

“I’m certain it would have precisely the op- 
posite effect on me!” taking up, as he spoke, 
another ancient tome. 

“ ‘Lessons for Young Persons in Humble Life, 
calculated to promote their improvement in the 


BEYOND THE PALE 


05 


art of reading, in virtue and piety, and the 
knowledge of the duties peculiar to their sta- 
tion.’ Pouff! Why, I’m quite out of breath; 
the title alone is the length of an ordinary short 
story. Price four and sixpence — very dear at 
the money, I should say. May I ask what was. 
your object in reading this work. Miss O’Bierne?” 

‘‘I thought it might be amusing P’ 

“Amusing! Where do you get hold of such 
gay literature?” 

“The Miss Dwyers lend me any books I care 
to take; they have quantities at Greeslie.” 

“They are not 3^0111* playfellows, at any rate?” 

“Playfellows! I^o, Miss Narcissa is my god- 
mother, and I believe she and my grandfather 
used to play together. She is eighty years of 
age!” 

Young Money as she spoke was contemptu- 
ously turning over the j^ellows leaves. 

“ ‘Be good and 3^ou’ll be happy,’ ” he read. 
“I’m not so sure of that! 

“ ‘A lie is troublesome, and often needs a great 
many more to prevent it’s being found out.’ 
Ahem! that’s a fact; I can speak from experi- 
ence,” was his shameless confession. ^‘The 
proverb ‘as easy as lying’ is a cruel fraud.” 

Miss O’Bierne, who was facing him with her 
back to the light, made no remark, but her eyes 
expressed austere incredulity. 

What an odd sort of girl she was! She sat so 
intensely still, and her face wore a curious look, 
a look of pinched pallor. Was she sick? Was 
she sulk}^? Was she shy? Taking up another 


9G 


BEYOND THE PALE 


book, a small volume bound in green silk, be 
said, “What is this? — ‘The Carcariet. Select 
passages from the most distinguished writers.’ 
Poetry, I declare! And some of it marked and 
re-marked. Oh, Miss O’Bierne, I would never 
have suspected it!” and his eyes twinkled mis- 
chievously. 

“It has not* been marked by me, but by Miss 
Narcissa,” she replied hastily. 

“I see that it was presented to Miss Narcissa 
Dwyer b}^ her true friend, Brian O’Bierne, 1835. 
Your grandfather, I presume?” 

“Yes,” and she half extended her hand to 
take the book, but her timid effort was totally 
lost upon Mr. Money, who was now deeply en- 
grossed in its contents. 

“ ‘Courtship consists in a number of quiet 
attentions,’ ” he read aloud with slow empha- 
sis, “ ‘not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague 
as not to be understood. — Sterne.’ ” And he 
looked up with a curious half-quizzical smile. 
“That selection is underlined, I see. And here 
is a pretty little faded flower pressed between 
the leaves; it has been a forget-me-not, I be- 
lieve,” and he held it out between two eless, 
unsympathetic fingers. 

“Please put it back,” rather sharply. 

“Certainly. I find yet another extract with 
three strokes of blue pencil, so it is sure to be 
choice : 


“ ‘But it is ever thus with happiness, 

It is the gay to-morrow of the mind 
That never comes.’ 


BEYOND THE PALE 


97 


Alas, poor Miss Narcissa!” ke ejaculated, shak- 
ing his head. “Next vve have a verse to Disap- 
pointment, beginning ‘Come, Disappointment, 
come.’ It’s Miss Narcissa’s love story, I -de- 
clare! I can read between the lines, and piece 
it all together.” 

“No, no, you shall not!” interrupted the girl 
brusquely and half rising from her seat. Her 
face was in a flame, her glance indignant, not 
to say imperious, as she added, “You must not 
read any more. You drag things into light that 
I should never have discovered. It is not fair, 
it is like eavesdropping, it’s not honorable.” 

Denis Money laughed, the delighted laugh of 
a mischievous boy. How his unexpected And 
had roused his hitherto pale and reserved com- 
panion! How she had flared up! 

“I assure you most solemnly that, it is all 
right,” he answered. “The old lady is eighty 
years of age. If she did get ‘chucked’ once 
upon a time, you may be certain that she had 
forgotten the whole affair half a century ago. 
She lent you this ‘Carcanet,’ ” keeping tight 
hold of it as he spoke, “with no more sentiment 
than if it was a cookery book. Well, just look 
here,” in answer to an outstretched authorita- 
tive hand, “allow me to read one bit more, one 
little bit,” he pleaded in a coaxing key. “It has 
no less than six pencil lines at either side, and 
must be a really valuable article. You have 
“never dipped into these treasures, I can see! 
And supposing that Miss Narcissa were to put 
you through a stiff examination in the marked 


98 


BEYOND THE PALE 


passages!” As the hand was still extended 
across the table, he began to read in a hurried 
voice : 

“*‘The most lasting families have only their 
season, more or less, their spring and summer 
glare, their wane, decline, and death. They 
^ flourish and shine perhaps for ages ; at last they 
sicken, their light grows pale, and At a crisis, 
when the off sets, are withered, and the old stock 
is blasted, the whole tribe disappears,’ ” as did 
also the outstretched hand, which had now been 
slowly withdrawn. Denis Money came to a 
dead stop. Here was a hideous pitfall ! 

“Go on, pray,” said a low, abrupt voice. 

The young man of the world felt for once 
in his life a ridiculous fool, and, overwhelmed 
with misery and confusion, he colored, and 
stammered out: 

“It does not seem very — so very — ” 

“Amusing,” suggested the girl with frigid 
composure ; and, finally reaching out her hand, 
she took stem possession of the little green vol- 
ume. “Miss Narcissa has experienced the truth 
of that passage, at any rate,” she said, with a 
slight curl of her lip. 

“I am very sorry,” he faltered. 

“So am I — very sorry,” and she sighed a lit- 
tle strangled sigh, 

Sorry for herself, or for Miss Narcissa — which? 
he wondered. How was he to extricate himself 
from this desperate quagmire? He had laughed 
at. Miss Jerry; now she could, and she would, 
turn the tables on him. What a humiliating 


BEYOND THE PALE 


99 


experience to find himself actually forcing..this 
last of the O’Biernes to listen to a reading on 
the subject of ruined families! After an inter- 
val of what is known as a heavy silence, he 
plucked up courage and said: 

“I should like to lend you one or two sporting 
novels by Smee— such as ‘Handley Cross,’ ‘Jor- 
rocks,’ or some of Whyte Melville’s, if I may. 
I’m sure you would find them interesting.” 
What possessed him to make this impulsive 
offer, he angrily asked himself, • as he finished 
speaking. He had not a book in Ireland to his 
name. 

“Thank you, I shall be very glad,” she an- 
swered, as she carefully rearranged the old vol- 
umes, “if it will not be giving you too much 
trouble.” * 

The words “too much trouble” fell upon Til- 
ly’s ears, at the conclusion of one of her wild 
screams of laughter, and she called out in a tone 
of strained jocularity ; 

“She is always giving trouble, Mr. Money, 
and, I see, is stuck in books as usual; that’s the 
way to her heart — through a book.” 

“And yours, through a gaudy hat, or a bottle 
of champagne, eh, Tilly?” put in Casey, with a 
jeering laugh. 

“Now, Jerry, stir yourself, and get the tea- 
cloth, it’s in the backgammon box,” said Tilly 
irritably. 

Geraldine rose to obey, and as she did so the 
door was opened with a kick, and the buxom 


100 


BEYOND THE PALE 


servant, in a clean apron, tramped in, carrying 
a tray before her. She was so absorbed in star- 
ing at the grand company that she lost her way 
and steered blindly for the piano. 

^ ‘Jerry, the wicker table here, just in front of 
me — quick, quick, quick!” As she stooped to 
place it close to Miss Scully the latter half rose, 
with a little affected scream, saying: 

“Goody sakes, child, what have you been 
doing to yourself?” 

“What do you mean?” inquired the other 
gravely, as she stepped back to make room for 
the tray and its bearer. 

“I mean that the whole side of your head is 
covered with blood — take off your hafc.” 

“Why should I take off my hat? Doii^t be 
sillv!” 

“Take off your hat,” repeated Miss Scully 
dramatically, “or I will take it off for you. I 
know your little tricks. Miss Galloping Jerry; 
you’ve been having a fall.” 

“I have not,” returned the girl impatiently, 
and removing her hat with slow reluctance. 

“Well, what is it?” she asked. 

It was an immense bruise over the left temple, 
and a very deep cut above the ear, stanched by 
a mass of thick dark hair. And this plucky 
girl was standing up in the middle of them all, 
hat in hand, and asking, “What is it?” 

“You’ve only cut your head, and got a dread- 
ful bruise, Jerry, next door to a black eye; how 
did it happen?” 

“I suppose it’s the knock I got against the 


BEYOND THE PALE 


101 


stable door when the mare bolted. I did not 
think it showed.” 

(This, then, was the reason why she had 
pulled her hat over her eyes.) 

“Well, never mind, Jerry, me darlin’,” 
drawled Casey from the sofa. “You’ll be well 
before you are twice married.” 

“You will certainly be killed some day,” 
added Tilly, with a giggle. “Go off at once, 
and get Bridget to bathe it.” 

“It’s nothing to make such a fuss about,” 
protested Scully’s victim, moving away. 

“Well, it’s awful to look at. I do wdsh you 
would go away,’’ she added peevishly. “You 
know very well that I can’t abide horrid 
sights.” 

“It’s a very nasty blow,” remarked Money, 
as he joined Miss O’Bierne before a long, spotted 
mirror, in which she was criticall}" surveying 
herself. As they stood thus side by side, each 
had an excellent opportunity of studying the 
other. Miss O’Bierne was much taller than 
Denis Money had supposed from her figure on 
horseback; her head was well above his shoul- 
der, and he was six foot, and she was more 
than fifteen ^ years of age — disfigured, shabby, 
but oh what an aristocrat! An eaglet in a 
crow’s nest. In her wonderfdS deep blue eyes 
he saw a great melancholy. A look borrowed 
from the whole of dumb, inarticulate nature — 
something of the infinite sadness that glimmers 
upon the face of a still mountain lough. 

Involuntarily she turned her glance on him 


102 


BEYOND THE PALE 


and smiled — a timid smile, that died out in- 
stantly. 

This young tenant of Carrig had a face like 
an old picture at Creeshe (the portrait of a 
celebrated cavalier); he had kind eyes; he 
had treated her as an equal. 

The owner of these same kind eyes had at 
that instant made up his mind to be very good 
to ‘ ‘ Gallopi ng J erry . ” w 

‘‘Well, you had a narrow squeak to-day,” 
broke in Tilly’s vulgar brogue (there are 
brogues and brogues). 

“Bosh!” returned a contemptuous bass from 
the sofa. “Jerry has as many lives as three 
cats! She’ll bury us all.” 

“I sincerely hope you may bury mut- 

tered Money, sotto voce. 

“I must confess that I never saw such a 
Spartan girl as Miss Jerry,” observed Ulick 
Doyne admiringly. 

“Sportin’ girl,” echoed Walshe. “Yes, she’s 
all that. There’s a two-year-old filly called 
after her. Galloping Jerry, entered for the — 
Why, she’s gone!” 


CHAPTER TWELVE 

SHE HAS NINE LIVES 

“Miss O’Bierne looked uncommonly shaky,” 
volunteered young Money. “She was as white 
as a sheet.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


103 


‘‘That’s her usual color,” responded Tilly 
shortly, as she made a clatfer among the cups 
and saucers, and proceeded to pour out the tea. 

“But, Miss Scully,” as he received his cup 
from her hands, “pray don’t stand on ceremony 
with us. I’m sure you want to go and see after 
Miss O’Bierne. I think that blow on her head 
is rather a serious business, and it was the effect 
of .the worst runaway I ever saw.” 

•“Oh!* then you should see some of the scenes 
we have here!” she answered carelessly, as she 
proffered a plate- of hot cakes. “The way some 
of the colts have been like raging wild beasts, 
and dashed about, and lashed about, and reared, 
and bolted, I’m quite hardened, I can tell you; 
and Jerry has nine lives. Do have a cake,” 
she added coaxingly. 

“But don’t you think you ought to get ad- 
vice?” continued Money, with cool persistence. 
“My horse is here; I can fetch a doctor.” 

“Oh, nonsense! and we have the yard full.” 

“Of doctors?” 

“No, thank goodness! I assure you Jerry is 
all right.” ^ 

“But indeed. Miss Scully, if you want to take 
her up tea--” 

“She’ll get that in the kitchen,” she inter- 
rupted impatiently. 

“Or find out how she is getting on, don’t 
make strangers of us, please,” urged Ulick 
Doyne. 

Was Tilly Scully likely to abandon (even for 
five minutes) two “swell beaux,” as she men- 


104 


BEYOND THE PALE 


tally called them, in order to minister to Jerry, 
whose numerous escapes had made her perfectly 
callous? She had no more intention of stirring 
than she had of “making strangers” of these dis- 
tinguished guests. 

No„ no; the Hon. Ulick Doyne and young 
Money of Carrig should not so likely break their 
thrall. This was quite a red letter day for her, 
and she meant to enjoy it, despite the hateful 
consciousness of her old tennis shoes and greasy 
skirt. 

“My dear Mr. Doyne,” she cried, stretching 
out her hand in a most dramatic fashion, “you 
don’t know JeiTy! She hates to be fussed 
about; she will bathe her face, stick on a piece 
of plaster, change her frock, and be down here 
in ten minutes. Meanwhile, let me give you 
another cake!” 

Mr. Scully had left the room shortly after the 
appearance of tea, muttering the words “Bran 
Mash,” for which read “Whisky.” 

Tilly was in her element, administering tea to 
two young men, chattering incessantly, and 
according, if anything, a shade more attention 
to the Hon. Ulick Doyne, in spite of the fact 
that his relations, to quote her own elegant ex- 
pression, “treated her as the dirt under their 
feet.” She rolled her bold black eyes to and 
fro, she giggled, she gushed, she screamed, she 
fished for compliments, while Casey lay at full 
length on the sofa with tw^o cushions under his 
head, and Denis Money kept his eyes constantly 
fixed on the door. 


BEYOXD THE PALE 


105 


‘‘IVe been lost in admiration of Miss 
O’Bierne’s riding,” he said, during a. slight 
pause in the gladiatorial combat between the 
tongues of Doyne and Tilly. 

‘‘Miss O’Bierne! who’s she? Oh, you mean 
Jerry! Yes,- she can ride, and it’s about all she 
can do; she’d make her fortune in a circus, poor 
thing.” 

“Do you ride yourself?” 

“No, my uncle does not care about seeing me 
on horseback.” (No indeed! a wretched whim- 
pering coward, who invariably gave the auimal 
a girth gall or a sore back.) “You met Mrs. 
Vance to-day? Now do tell me what you think 
of her?” gazing up at him with her daring dark 
eyes. 

“Oh,” glancing at Doyne, “you mean the 
lady in blue and white and the many-colored 
hat — capital fun I should think — very cheery.” 

“Uncle Matt calls her the ‘Dasher’; she’s 
staying at the Hares’, she’s a wonderful dresser. 
He admires her, and I rather like the looks of 
her myself; she does not seem a bit stiff, like 
the rest of the people; but I can’t very well go 
and call, as the Hares never called on me; ‘poor 
and proud’ is their motto. However, we being 
connected with the O’Biernes, can afford to look 
down on every one. They are old enough family 
anyway!” 

Mr. Doyne glanced at Money with a twinkle 
in his eye, and gravely replied : “Yes, there is 
no question of that— the oldest family, dead or 
alive, in the province.” 


106 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“After all, Mrs. Vance’s husband is in trade — 
tea — and there’s not much difference between 
tea and horses, i& there?’ ^ 

“No, particularly when sometimes a horse 
turns out to be a plant!” 

“Come, come, none of that, Doyne,” expostu- 
lated his companion. “I can’t stand these jokes 
on serious subjects.” 

Meanwhile Mr. Scully had returned, paper in 
hand, and had suddenly burst into an angry 
oration on the subject of the wieghts for the 
Cambridgeshire. This struck the right note, as 
far as Mr. Doyne and Casey were concerned, 
and a hot argument instantly ensued. The dis- 
cussion raged vociferously, Casey and Scully 
both trying to shout one another down, while 
Doyne, who was 'excitable, threw in an occa- 
sional incendiary remark. 

At last it became evident to Mr. Money that 
Miss O’Bierne was not coming back; it was 
getting quite dark, the fat serv^ant had brought 
in an evil-smelling lamp, and, finding all sig- 
nals thrown away upon Doyne, he got up, with 
ruthless determination, breaking as he did so 
into the middle of one of Tilly’s confidential out- 
pourings, said a resolute good-by, and with 
many handshakes, gushing regrets, and impera- 
tive commands “to be sure and call again ^oon” 
Miss Tilly suffered the two young men to escape, 
while Casey hurried out, eager to speed their de- 
parture. 

‘/Now what do you think of that menageV 
asked Doyne, as they jogged up the avenue. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


107 


‘‘That it is a yery curious one, and that I am 
glad I don’t form a part of it.” 

“Old Matt sells good horses, but beyond busi- 
ness I’d advise you to have nothing to say to 
him. He has a lot of low ruffians hanging 
round and flattering him, and he leads his own 
people the devil’s life. Hare could tell you fine 
stories. He remembers him driving a car in 
Dublin, he saj^s. The niece manages the old 
man, I believe, but the other . has a dog’s 
life.” 

“So I could see.” 

“They say when Scully discovered that she 
could stick to a horse he took her away from an 
English school and set her to school hunters; he 
put her on the back of anything, good or bad, 
and then he’d flog the pair across country. She 
broke in brutes that he sold for two or three 
hundred as made hunters; and any quantity of 
flighty thoroughbreds suitable to fliers in the 
Shires. God help some of those that bought a 
mount because ‘it was constantly ridden bv a 
lady.’ ” 

At this pious invocation Money leaned back 
in his saddle and laughed a good long hearty 
laugh. 

“I think,” pursued Doyne, “that you have 
got a sound thing in the black, though he is a 
fairy horse ; he struck me as suspiciously cheap. 
You’ll have a vet.’s opinion, of course.” 

“Yes, and I think the Squire will suit my 
father; and there are others I fancied, but I 


108 


BEYOND THE PALE 


say, Doyne, about Miss O’Bierne? It’s horrible 
to see her living among that crew. Will none 
of her own relations come forward to her 
rescue?” 

“I don’t fancy she would like it if they did — 
they are all dead. If it was any place but Scul- 
ly’s, people would take her up, and visit her, 
and ask her out; for when all is said and done, 
she is Miss O’Bierne, a daughter of the G’Bierne 
— the best born in the land ; but you see she is 
never to be met except with Tilly. Where she 
goes Tilly goes, or would go, and she is a young 
woman with a past — you ask Hare; and Matt 
and his lot have a shocking bad name for drink- 
ing and cheating and every sort of villainy; and 
Jerry is constantly associated with these black- 
legs and jocks. Poor girl! I suppose she will 
marry one of them some day; it will be her 
only chance of escape * from her present lot. 
Either that — or breaking her neck.” 

"‘I sincerely hope that neither of your pleasant 
prophecies will come true,” said Money ^ ‘‘though 
she was nearly killed to-day. How she loathes 
that fellow Walshe, and what a funk she is in 
of Scully. Brute! she seems to shiver when he 
speaks to her.” 

“No wonder, if he has brought her up with 
that whip whistling behind her.” ^ 

“I pity her more than any one I know.” 

“Yes, we all do that; but we had better not 
display it, for she looks the sort of girl to whom 
] i \y would be poison. Well, here our roads part. 
I suppose you’ll come out cubbing on the black 


BEYOND THE PALE 


109 


next week ? Mind how you cross running 
water!” 

With which injunction, Mr. Doyne trotted off 
laughing. 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

, DEAF EARS 

“Upon my word, Denis, you have a wonder- 
ful appetite for adventure, and opportunities to 
correspond!” said his stepmother, as she poured 
out coffee at breakfast, “or — perhaps you have a 
more vivid imagination than nous autresf^ 

“Is that a delicate way of telling me that my 
geese are swans? At any rate, there is a great 
deal more of the swan than the goose about Miss 
O’Bierne, and we nearly had her swan song yes- 
terday.” 

“I have never seen her on horseback, but 
only on the road, returning from church. She 
looked just an ordinary, Blight, shabby girl, 
with great big eyes and a pale face.” 

“Merely pale by contrast, if she was walk- 
ing between Mr. and Miss Scully,” said Denis, 
with a smile. ^ 

“Scully is a brute!” exclaimed Mr. Money, 
knocking the top off his egg with vicious energy. 
“I believe that little girl supports the whole 
rascall}’ pack, and is kept hard at work from 
daylight till dark, training and handling horses. 
She gets nothing but ill usage and abuse. She 


110 


BEYOND THE PALE 


is only a mere child ; it is scandalous. Could 
not you do something for her, Ju?” 

My dear man!’^ setting down the sugar 
bowl aghast. ‘‘Fancy my interfering with the 
Scully meyiage, I’m certainly a member of the 
Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, 
but what could I possibly do?” 

“You might call on Miss O’Bierne,” was his 
bold suggestion. “You could ask her here,” he 
added, with still greater intrepidity. 

“Call at Racehill! Ask her here! My dar- 
ling boy, you don’t in the least know what you 
are talking about. I should be cut by the whole 
county!” 

“Can you not do something, Ju? You are so 
clever in expedients, so awfully good in helping 
people.” 

“Ah, yes, but people of quite another class — 
the poor — ” 

“She is poor — I am sure she is a distressed 
Irish lady, if ever there was one. If you knew 
her you would be sorry for her, and as anxious 
to rescue her from that crew as I am myself.” 

“As anxious as you are yourself,” repeated 
Mrs. Money in a constrained voice, then with a 
little unpleasant laugh, “My dear, romantic 
Denis, if we were to 'try and rescue every girl 
whose mother had married beneath her, where 
should we be? Where would it all end? Why 
did the woman give her daughter such a step- 
father as Scully?” 

“Why, indeed? Please ask* me something 
easier. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Hi 


“The sins of the fathers are always visited on 
the children,” continued the lady, sententiously. 

“And the sins of the grandfathers, and grand- 
mothers as well in this case,” added her step- 
son, emphatically. 

“I am really surprised that none of the resi- 
dents — who, of course, know all the circum- 
stances of her family — have not thrown their 
wing over the girl. Now, that would be quite 
as it should be. But for me, a complete out- 
sider, to cultivate her, would be a most fatal 
experiment. Besides, we should not have one 
single idea in common.” 

“1 thought you were so fond of girls; you 
have often said so,” remarked Denis, persist- 
ently. 

Mrs. Money reddened with irritation. What 
had come to the boy? 

“You are expecting a girl here to-day?” 

“Yes, and I am quite devoted to my own young 
fnends, well bred, cultivated, refined, charming. 
But this weather - beaten, brow - beaten horse- 
breaker ! She and I would be more antagonis- 
tic than otherwise. I hate horses, I am hor- 
ribly afraid of them, as you know. I could not 
discuss splints, spavins, runs, and kills, and I 
am supremely ignorant of the jargon of grooms. ” 

Denis glanced at his stepmother. There was 
a metallic hardness in her eyes ; her mouth, natu- 
rally firm in expression, had compressed itself 
into one thin line. He recognized the mood. 
The more he urged, the more she would oppose. 
He had made a mull of the whole business! 


112 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Yes, he had been far too outspoken in his sym- 
pathy. . 

‘‘Of course,” answering his look, “I am ex- 
tremely sorry for Miss O’Bierne’s unfortunate 
position, but she is not surrounded with any halo 
of romance in my eyes. She is a fine horse- 
woman, that is enough for you; but I am con- 
vinced that otherwise she is a most common- 
place, ignorant young person, not as well- 
mannered as my own maid, and that her gar- 
ments positiv’ely reek of the stable. If money — ” 

“No,” in a tone of laconic severity that was 
entirely new to her ears. It was now Mrs. 
Money’s turn to survey Denis with a look of 
keen surprise. After a long, reflective silence, 
she said in a quite pleasant key : 

“Well, then, in that case, dear, let us talk of 
something else. What day shall we ask the 
Scariffs? We are overwhelmed with engage- 
ments, and there is the Bundorans’ dinner on 
Wednesday. Oh, you grumpy boy ! Pray don’t 
look so solemn — and you shall drive me to meet 
Lady Flora at the station.” 

Mrs. Money had risen as she spoke, holding a 
large packet of letters in one hand; with the 
other she patted him affectionately on the head. 
“I shall start at three o’clock sharp.” 

“I don’t want to meet Lady Flora,” moving 
his head with a touch of impatience. 

“Oh, yes, dear, you do, and I’m so nervous 
with those chestnut horses at the train when 
Cooper is driving,, but quite courageous when 
you are my charioteer.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


113 


‘‘Why not take the grays?’’ 

“Denis, how can you be so ungracious, and 
all because I won’t go and call upon a horse 
dealer’s daughter?” She spoke more in sorrow 
than in anger. “You must come, dear,” and, 
to her husband, “Tony, I suppose Thursday 
week will do for the Scariffs’ dinner?” 

“Yes,” he grunted from behind his paper. 
“I hope that new cook of yours won’t do for 
them.” 

“You shocking man! Why, 1 got him from 
Lady Victoria Jones, and I’m paying him fabu- 
lous wages. Well, I’ll write the invitations at 
once — eighteen,” and so saying, she sailed away 
— with her own way. 

“Extraordinary, how hard the best of women 
are to one another?” remarked Mr. Money, as 
if speaking to himself. His son made no an- 
swer, but, reaching for the “Field,” was soon 
plunged in its contents. 

In ten minutes’ time Geraldine O’Bierne and 
her misfortunes were completely forgotten, not 
only by Mrs. but by Mr. Money; as for Denis — 
such is the irritating contrariness of the nature 
of some 3'Oung men, that his thoughts dwelt far 
more frequently upon the absent Geraldine than 
the present Flpra, a pretty little flaxen-haired 
Scotch girl, with delightfully confiding, cling- 
ing sort of ways, and an incessant flow of so- 
ciety chatter. Constant as was his occupation, 
numerous his engagements, rapid his pace, young 
Mr. Money never forgot to look down the avenue 


lU 


BEYOND THE PALE 


as he passed Racehill ; but, so far, he had not 
once caught a glimpse of the particular figur* 
for which his eyes searched. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

ALLIED FORCES 

The truth was, that the blow she had receive,^ 
on her head had proved more serious than Miss 
O’Bierne would admit. She had fainted under 
old Biddy’s hands, much to that excellent wo- 
man’s alarm, and while Denis Money, with sym- 
pathetic intentions, was anxiously watching for 
her return, and Tilly was garrulously declaring 
that ‘‘she had nine lives,” Geraldine was lying 
back in a kitchen chair, in a dead faint; and for 
a week she kept her room. Geraldine’s room 
was isolated by her own choice; a swing door, 
a staircase, and lobby cut her off completely 
from the other inmates; she had, in fact, a 
whole story (reputed to be haunted) to herself; 
and of this she had selected a large attic with a 
cheerful aspect (not overlooking the stable-yard), 
and had arranged it to her liking. It was her 
room, and her castle. Yes, you may enter and 
look round, for she lies fast asleep in her narrow 
little bed, her long, black lashes sweeping her 
pale, and, indeed, hollow cheeks, her hand open 
and outstretched, from which a heavy book has 
dropped upon the floor. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


115 


It is the room of an inmate of refined instincts^ 
warm affections, a shallow purse, and, some 
might be inclined to add, a room full of rubbish 
and lumber. The boards are bare, save in the 
middle of the apartment, where they are covered 
by a worsted carpet, now faded and always hid- 
eous, but every stitch of which was put in by the 
elegant and industrious fingers of Geraldine’s 
two great grand-aunts. Each corner displa3^s 
what appears to be a monstrous black crab, but 
it is an honestly intended representation of a gal- 
loping horse, the crest of the O’Biernes. In one 
window stands a decrepit writing-table, furnished 
with some photographs in frames, a few chrys- 
anthemums, and a desk. The toilet-table’s in- 
firmities are gracefully concealed in muslin 
draperies; it exhibits an oval swing mirror 
(much spotted), a large leathern jewel case 
(much scratched), a watch (turnip) on stand, 
some quaint scent bottles and japanned boxes. 
The mantel-piece is . covered with pretty knick- 
knacks, of no value save one or two bits of good 
china; above it is suspended a half-length oil 
painting of Brian O’Bierne — a handsome, impe- 
rious-looking man, in a scarlet hunting coat. 
The walls at either side are almost hidden with 
pictures, shabby old colored prints in shabby 
frames, and an ancient guitar in a case, and a 
battered tin bath, lean sociably together against 
a wall. 

There is a venerable Dutch bureau, with a 
portly figure and elaborate gilt handles to its 
numerous drawers, and above it is a glass book- 


116 


BEYOND THE PALE 


case, containing quite a goodly show of volumes, 
all stamped with the O’Bierne coat of arms. 
These include Scott’s novels, Moore, Goldsmith, 
the ‘‘Spectator,” “Rambler,” “Tattler,” “Ra- 
cine,” an aged encyclopedia, some old numbers of 
the “Mirror,” and a full s^t of “Blair’s Sermons” 
— flotsam from Carrig. Several feeble armchairs 
and a large round table, with tarnished gilt legs, 
are, doubtless, refugees from the same place. 
We notice drawing materials, a work basket 
choked with work, a reading lamp, a spirit 
lamp, a tea set; all of which testify to the fact 
that Miss O’Bierne spends many hours in her 
retreat — a mere garret, furnished with the lum- 
ber from her grandfather’s old home. We dis- 
cern no fine feathers; two shabby dresses hang 
limply behind the door. If Miss O’Bierne in- 
dulges in any extravagance, apparently it is in 
the matter of “shoeing”; we observe no less 
than four pair of neat boots and shoes on trees, 
and two dainty little suede silk-lined slippers are 
lying by the dressing table. Everything is ex- 
quisitely neat, everything is in its place, every- 
thing is spotless (save the mirror). Could An- 
thony Money have inspected the apartment, his 
heart would have warmed to its tenant. But 
what would Anthony have thought of Miss 
Scully’s bower two stories below? Her dress- 
ing table represented a kind of mash, of veils, 
ties, gloves, powder-puffs, artificial flowers, hair 
brushes, hair pads, and even jugs and shoes. 
The chairs were piled with ragged finery, the 
drawers were dragged out, the long-suffering 


BEYOND THE PALE 


117 


wooden press had burst its hinges — the result 
from being choked with rubbish — the carpet 
was cov'ered with litter, there were ashes in 
the grate, and dust everywhere; a pack of 
greasy playing cards and a dirty fortune-tell- 
ing book shared with a tin candlestick a chair 
beside Miss Scully’s bed. Indeed, all the house, 
save the kitchen and attics, was frowsy, neg- 
lected, and untidy; slowly creeping dry rot, 
coupled with corroding indolence, and indiffer- 
ence, rendered the interior of Racehill a melan- 
choly contrast to its surroundings. There the 
stables, yards, gates — nay, the very ladders and 
buckets— put to shame the old mansion with its 
peeling walls, grimy windows, and general air 
of decay. The inhabitants of the stable, too, 
were much better bred; more gentlemanly and 
refined, than some of their neighbors in the hall. 
The Squire, for example, was a bold, generous, 
forgiving creature, totally different to his mas- 
ter; and that willing, innocent Black Pat, with 
his big heart, eager legs, and wild desire to 
please, was a much nicer person than Casey 
Walshe. 

Matt Scully was, like Mr. Peter Money, a 
‘‘self-made man,” and, in many respects, lie 
had made himself badly. He was almost with- 
out education, but possessed of a shrewd nature 
and a hard, unfaltering faculty to push ; gifted 
with “a good eye for a horse,” and a knack of 
holding his tongue, he had “got on,” and he 
stood upon the apex of his fortunes (in his own 
opinion) when he married the widow of the 


118 


BEYOND THE PALE 


O’Bierne. In some mysterious manner, he had 
been mixed up in her late husband’s most intri- 
cate money affairs; there had been one or two 
tearful personal interviews, then interviews not 
so tearful, finally, smiles. Matt in those days 
was a fresh-looking, personable man; he was 
wealthy, he was pressing. Mrs. O’Bierne was 
too indolent, too shiftless, to put her shoulder to 
the wheel. How could she support herself and 
a child on fifty pounds a year? she asked her 
friends querulously; was ever any one left like 
her? And her friends and the county were alike 
thunderstruck to hear that Mrs. Gerald O’Bierne 
had thrown herself and all her responsibilities 
into the arms of Matt Scully the horse dealer. 
The happy couple were married quietly in Dublin, 
and subsequently spent the honeymoon in Lon- 
don. However, if Mrs. Matthew Scully enter- 
tained any foolish idea that she would be re- 
ceived among her former acquaintances, that 
idea was promptly and ruthlessly dispelled. It 
was in vain that she wrote scores of piteous lit- 
tle notes, explaining that “she had made the 
great sacrifice solely for darling Geraldine’s 
sake. How was the child to be brought up 
and educated?” It was in vain that, beauti- 
fully dressed, she drov^e about the country in a 
smart victoria, seeking recognition and finding 
none. Lady Scariff had looked her straight be- 
tween the eyes, and cut her dead; and every one 
had followed her virtuous example; even the 
Miss Dwyers — yet Narcissa Dwyer was Jerry’s 
godmother. No one would have anything to 


BEYOND THE PALE 


119 


say to Mrs. Scully, while Mrs. O’Bierne on a 
pound a week would have enjoyed the goodwill 
and sympathy of rich and poor. . Geraldine was 
dispatched to school at the tender age of five, and 
the neighborhood once more held up their hands 
in horror. But Mr. Scully did not care for chil- 
dren (neither did his wife), and she had always 
felt that Geraldine had done her an unpardon- 
able injury in not being a boy. For a boy she 
might have struggled, and fought, and snatched 
at a few acres and trees, but it was useless to 
bother about a girl. Honestly, she had no love 
for the child. The child had a hatefully persist- 
ent way of sitting and gazing at her with a pair 
of the great O’ Bier ne eyes — eyes questioning, 
reproachful, tragic — otherwise, she was a meek 
and affectionate little creature. 

Mrs. Scully possessed a boudoir, a new piano, 
quantities of dresses, and fine feathers, but she 
soon grew tired of them all, soon grew weary of 
driving about the roads, of having no one to 
visit, no one to bow to (the very beggars snubbed 
her), tired of dressing for no one to see ; she grad- 
ually fell into a state of invalidism — “a decline” 
in every sense of the word. She spent most of 
her days on the sofa, reading, grumbling, and 
experimenting on new patent medicines. Matt, 
strange to record, was extremely proud of his 
useless, expensive, lady-wife, particularly of her 
delicacy, and bragged abroad of her ailments, 
many prescriptions, and many doctors’ fees. It 
was true that she had not bettered his social po- 
sition — fdr from it. Still no one could dispute 


1^0 BEYOND THE PALE 

the fact that his wife was the widow of the 
O’Bierne of Car rig! 

After several years of calling “Wolf, wolf,” 
the wolf, in the shape of death, really appeared, 
and carried off Mrs. Scully, who was subsequently 
interred with great pomp in the sepulcher of the 
Princes of Inagh. By will, she left everything 
that she had in her power to her dear husband, 
including the sole guardianship of her daughter 
Geraldine, and Tilly, niece of Matthew, reigned 
in her stead. 

Tilly, uneducated, self-indulgent, and unprin- 
cipled, held the reins with a slack hand, and un- 
der her management matters went hopelessly to 
the bad. She was naturally easy-going and in- 
dolent. Though nominally mistress of the house, 
she left the chief burden to Jerry; she turned 
away an excellent servant, and established in 
her place a friend of her own, the fat, laughing, 
impudent Hannah, who was as idle as herself; 
but Hannah carried notes, told her all the news, 
flattered her extravagantly, and brought her her 
breakfast in bed. Tilly was a born intriguante 
and flirt, and had absolutel}^ nothing in common 
with the hardy, resolute, and self-reliant Geral- 
dine. She detested outdoor life, she hated em- 
ployment, she hated improving her mind; her 
chief friend was a girl in a cigar shop in Bally- 
bawl, and her chief occupation cobbling up 
tawdry finery and devouring penny novelettes. 

Old Bridget Shea, the cook, was the real back- 
bone of the establishment, and as erect as a grena- 
dier. She had a bitter tongue, a rancorous dis- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


121 


like of Tilly, her ways and her handmaid ; but 
she kept things together, and punctually served 
up breakfasts, dinners, and teas, and never al- 
lowed Casey Walshe to set foot in her kitchen, 
though she actually accorded the entree to Paddy 
Pinafore. 

Casey honoi'ed Racehill with most of his time, 
and was the guide, counselor, and friend of its 
master. At first, his visits had been fitful and 
not prolonged, but gradually he had become an 
established member of the family, had his own 
especial room and chair, and even a particular 
corner in the dining-room, where he kept his 
slippers. It was whispered that he had Matt 
Scully in his power, through some nefarious rac- 
ing transaction (which had greatly benefited the 
trainer’s pocket), and that, as an acknowledg- 
ment, he had been suffered to ‘‘hang up his hat” 
at Racehill, where he and his confederate spent 
many an evening, talking over past and future 
events, discussing horses, stables, weights, and 
Turf morality, over their whisky and water. 

Geraldine detested Casey, but he and Tilly 
were excellent friends; she “kept her hand in,” 
as she frankly expressed it, bandying vulgar 
witticisms and repartees 'with the jockey, who, 
on his part, presented her with cheap gloves and 
scents. Occasionally on wet days, and in mo- 
ments of extreme depression, Tilly told herself 
that “if the worst came to the worst” she would 
marry Casey Walshe — which would be coming to 
the very worst indeed., The inmates of Racehill 
might be divided into three pairs of allied powers. 


Beyond the pale 


Vll 

Geraldine O’Bierneand Bridget Shea, who were, 
at any rate, active, honest, and self-respecting. 
Tilly and the slovenly Hannah were birds of a 
feather, screened one another’s faults, and shared 
one another’s joys and anxieties. Scully and 
Casey made the third couple, an offensive and 
defensive alliance. Casey knew too many of old 
Matt’s secrets; and in his very heart of hearts 
(and sober morning hours) Matt longed to cast 
out — ay, to kick out — his sneering Old Man of 
the Sea, but alas! the jockey had too firm a seat 
upon his shoulders, and he was not at all nervous 
when he had merely to deal with a fellow-creat- 
ure who was in his power. 

What Bridget Shea was in the house, Garry, 
the head groom, was in the stable-yard. He 
had been reared on Carrig (he and the late Gerald 
O’ Bier ne were foster brothers), and was a devout 
adorer of the old family. This partiality did not, 
however, extend to their Wives and widows, and 
Garry had spoken such blighting plain truths to 
the late Mrs. Scully, and presented her with such 
a terrible ‘Apiece of his mind” that she had been 
thrown into violent hysterics, and had subse- 
quently implored “her dear, dear Matt, to send 
Garry about his business, and out of the place 
at once.” 

But Matt knew his business, and his own in- 
terests, far too well to carry out her tearful 
wishes. Garry was universally respected, a 
first-rate horseman and groom. His honest 
face had sold many a hunter. No, no, he 
could not spare Garry, and he knew perfectly 


BEYOND THE PALE 


123 


well that Garry would never leave his service 
(even if he worked without wages) as long as 
the apple of his eye, the last of the O’Biernes, 
remained under Racehill roof. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

RECKONING WITHOUT HIS HOSTESS 

Perhaps it was a little to his own astonish- 
ment that Denis Money found himself riding 
down Racehill Avenue, with a purpose in his 
mind, and a book in his pocket. The latter he 
had procured expressly from Dublin, and, as it 
was handed to him publicly from the post bag, 
he had parried Ju’s searching glance and ques- 
tion with a reply so abrqpt that she had thrust 
the parcel hastily into his hand, coloring with 
shame, believing it to be some abominable French 
publication. 

The volume was the ‘‘Brooks of Bridlemere^f 
his purpose, to see what he mentally termed “the 
little Spartan girl.” Her memory haunted him; 
she had interested him so much on the only oc- 
casion on which he had come across her that he 
was anxious to meet her again, in order to dis- 
cover if his geese were swans—if the first thrill- 
ing impression would be increased or dispelled. 

In order to carry out this expedition, he had 
absented himself from a neighboring afternoon 
dance, in spite of the bitter cry that “men were 


124 


BEYOND THE PALE 


scarce,” that ‘‘he must go”; in spite of Lady 
Flora’s pretty, coaxing, and beseeching pale blue 
eyes. No, no, no. He had rapidly proffered a 
series of elaborate and mendacious excuses, and 
had ridden out of the yard at a gallop, in order 
to evade Julia’s sharp eyes — ay, and her sharp 
tongue. Denis had been doing his utmost to 
please her and her guests for the last ten days; 
he was tired of the Miss De Braynes’ airs, of 
manly Lady Mary Blewitt; even that sweet lit 
tie parasite Lady Flora had begun to oppress 
him. He was going to please himself to-day, 
and to choose his own company (company at 
Eacehill) for a change. 

As he rode under the great archway he looked 
about him eagerly; but, look as he might, he 
only descried helpers, grooms, and Garry. Sud- 
denly the side door burst open, and, as it were, 
discharged into the yard Miss Tilly Scully, a 
truly brilliant apparition in a red cloak and 
a Tam O’Shanter. She appeared to be sin- 
cerely glad to see him, her face was actually 
rippling with 'smiles. Here, indeed, was “an 
eye that marked his coming, and looked brighter 
when he came.” 

Hurrying breathlessly up to him, she said, 
“Oh, Mr. Money, this is, indeed, an unexpected 
treat. When I heard the horse I thought it was 
my uncle. Do you want him, or,” looking up 
in his face coquettishly, “will I do instead?” 

“Well, I did rather want a talk with him 
about a couple of horses,” was the visitor’s 
matter of-fact reply. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


125 


‘‘He is out just’ now, but may be back at any 
moment.” (He had gone to a fair and was not 
expected until the next evening.) “Do come in, 
won’t you,” she pleaded. “Garry, here, take 
the gentleman’s horse.” 

“I hope he is giving yer honor satisfaction?” 
said Garry, touching his cap, while the black 
neighed a greeting to his stable friends. 

“Yes, I’ve not had him out with the hounds 
yet, but he is a nice hack.” 

“Oh, by jigs and reels, he is good at every- 
thing ; ye might clap him in harness, if ye had a 
mind ; and there’s no finer lepper in the country ; 
signs on it, they does be making out that he has 
a terrible lot of practice by moonlight, ” he added 
with a grin, “but I don’t hold with such non- 
sense.” 

“As schooling horses by moonlight? I should 
be surprised if you did,” exclaimed Money, as 
he dismounted. 

“Ye don’t take me, sir, I see. ’Tis a famil}^ 
banshee as exercises him by all accounts, and he 
was seen sailing over the demesne wall there 
below at Carrig one night last week.” 

“Demesne wall! How high is it?” 

“In or about twenty-four feet at its lowest 
part,” without moving a muscle of his face; 
“took it as kind as I would a glass o’ whisky.” 

“Oh, now, Mr. Money, don’t be losing your 
time humbugging with Garry,” protested Tilly, 
impatiently. “Sure, you’re too sensible for fairy 
tales, and he is a teetotaler, though you mightn’t 
think it. Come into the house along with me,” 


126 


BEYOND THE PALE 


and she led the way toward the wicket and the 
mansion. 

In the hall, they found a reminiscence of the 
fragrant and succulent onipn; in the drawing- 
room, a blazing turf fire, as well as some feeble 
attempts at decoration and dusting. Tilly had 
half expected some one, and when from a lofty 
window she had espied young Money her ex- 
pectations had been most nobly fulfilled. 

“And who is the book for?” she asked, as she 
threw off her cloak and revealed a neatly-fitting 
crimson body. “I’m passionately fond of read-' 
ing.” (Yes, and this young man was the image 
of the Earl of Rosewater — the hero of her latest 
novelette.) 

“It is for Miss O’Bierne.” 

“Oh,” rather blankly. “She doesn’t care for 
stories, you’d better lend it to me.” 

“Certainl}^, with pleasure; but I promised it 
first to Miss O’Bierne.” 

“Miss O’Bierne, Miss O’Bierne,” she repeated 
impatiently. “How grand we are! Can’t ye 
call her Jerry, like every one else?” 

“I shouldn’t think of taking such a liberty,” 
rather stiffly. 

“Liberty 1 This is Liberty Hall. Why, every 
one calls us Tilly and Jerry. We like it, you 
know,” and she flashed a look at him sidewise. 

“Is Miss O’Bierne at home?” he asked, serenely 
ignoring^ the innuendo. 

“Jerry? No, but I think she is about the 
place. You did not come to see her, surely. 
It’s me as always entertains the visitors,” with 


BEYOND THE PALE 


127 


a self-conscious giggle. hear you are very 
gay, always at parties,” she continued glibly. 
‘‘Now, tell me, what do you think of all the 
young ladies about here?” 

“That is rather a wide question, is it not? 
Who do you mean?” 

“Well, Katie Hare! There’s a fine lump of 
a girl for you! But they are awfully poor.” 

“May I look at this colored print,” he asked 
irrelevantly, rising as he spoke, and glad of any 
excuse that removed him from the unpleasant 
scrutiny of her grea*t, bold eyes. 

“Indeed you may,” rather snappishly, “if it’s 
to your taste and you see nothing better worth 
looking at! I think it hideous; it’s some old 
rubbish Mrs. Scully brought from Carrig. Jerry 
has hej* room all hung round with such like dis- 
mal-looking trash. ’ ’ 

On examination the picture proved to be a 
Ward, after Morland. 

“Is it any good, any value, I mean?” de- 
manded Tilly, who had risen, and now stood 
beside him. 

“Yes; I am not a judge, but I daresay it is 
worth ten to fifteen pounds.” 

“Ten to fifteen pounds! Oh, then I shall sell 
it,” clapping her hands, “and turn it into a seal- 
skin cape. Where would be a good place to 
send it?” 

“I really cannot say; but is it not Miss 
O’Bierne’s property?” 

“Oh, dear no, everything belongs to Uncle 
Matt, and what’s his is mine,” and she giggled. 


1^8 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“All that Jerry^owns iu the wide world is fifty 
pounds a year and the family emeralds. It’s my 
belief they are just pure green glass ! However, 
there was some old deed that could not be broken 
that kept them in the O’Bierne family as long 
as one of^the direct descent was alive. I sup- 
pose if Jerry died they’d come to me.” 

The visitor received this surprising statement 
with a slight elevation of his brows. 

“Yes, they say they are worth a lot of money 
and no use at all to Jerry, for she can neither 
wear them nor sell them; she won’t even lend 
them,” in an aggrieved tone. 

Seeing that the gentleman still remained stand- 
ing (for a tete-a-tete with Tilly was not an ex- 
hilarating prospect), she said: 

“Maybe you’d like to go out, and take a turn 
in the garden, while the tea is being made.” 

To this suggestion Money most joyfully as- 
sented; “about the place” might possibly in- 
clude the garden. And soon he and Miss Tilly 
were wending their way down a damp, dark 
path, to what had once been the pleasant com- 
panion of Racehill in its palmy days — a magnifi- 
cent walled, real old Irish garden. The rusty 
iron gate which admitted them gave a vista of 
one long central walk with a gentle rise in the 
middle. It was edged with great neglected 
borders, choked with dead leaves, and vener- 
able but rampant fruit trees. Among the tangle 
a number of red-hot pokers reared their spiked 
heads and gave color to the scene ; the back- 
ground was a dense jungle of cabbages, pota- 


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129 


toes, weeds, and box; here and there was an 
outline of a summer seat, or a ruined fountain, 
and the whole air was filled with the pungent 
odor of rotting leaves. Yet another great, so to 
speak, “lost garden” loomed through an arch- 
way on one hand, and on the other wa§ a long 
line of dilapidated and neglected greenhouses; 
their tiny panes of glass, their quaint old brass 
door handles, testifying to their extreme age. 

“Come in,” said Tilly in her gayest manner, 
leading the way into a decrepit structure. 

Money hesitated, casting one long lingering 
glance around the garden in search of Jerry. 

“Come, I’m going to pick you such a beau- 
tiful button-hole,” urged Tilly, as she contem- 
plated a collection of dead and blackened plants. 
“Oh, I know where to find the very thing,” and 
she hurried him on into a small conservatory at 
the end of the range, which exhibited some pre- 
tense at care and cultivation. 

Here there were fiowers; the rickety stands 
displayed rows of neat, well-cared for plants, 
and a hoary Gloire de Dijon trained over the 
wall. 

“Ah, I see a lovely bud, just the very thing,” 
exclaimed Tilly, as she seized a pair of scissors 
that along with a trowel lay in a little basket. 

“It’s almost a pity to cut it,” he objected, 
ungratefully. 

“Oh, not at* all; it’s far better in your coat 
than stuck here where no one sees it! This 
house, you notice, faces south, so the roses last 
on wonderfully. Now isn’t this nice?” sud- 


130 


BEYOND THE PALE 

denly thrusting one up to his nose. ‘‘Wait 
and I’ll put it in for you,” hunting for a pin. 

“No, no, never mind,” said her victim, who 
could scarcely restrain his impatience. “Oh, 
please don’t trouble,” stepping back a pace. 

“The trouble is a pleasure,” seizing, as she 
spoke, the lapel of his coat, and fastening in 
the rose — a lengthy operation. “Now, what 
are you going to give me for that?” looking 
up with a challenging smile. 

“My best thanks,” determined to throw away 
the flower the instant he could effect his escape. 
“I suppose you are fond of gardening?” he re- 
marked, in a wild desire to say something. “One 
can see that a lady works here,” and he glanced 
at a small pair of gardening gloves hanging on 
a nail, and mentally compared the bright show 
of chrysanthemums to the dreary range of houses 
through which they had reached it. 

“Oh, laws, no! I hate grubbing. This is 
Jerry’s own particular greenhouse. She would 
be wild if she knew I came in here and cut that 
rose,” and she burst into a laugh that shook the 
frail structure in a manner that was positively 
dangerous. “Now don’t take it out,” seeing 
him put up his hand, “or I’ll never speak to you 
again.” (What a bribe, did she but know it.) 
“Yes,” returning through the dreary hothouses, 
“Uncle Matt gets a wonderful lot of grapes and 
peaches out of these old houses ; they pay well, 
as long as they’ll stand. He has a man and a 
boy in to keep up fires, but no gardener at all. 
Jerry has a little bit there, near the sun-dial. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


I3L 


and when she has time she works like a 
black.” 

‘^But surely hasn’t she plently of idle hours?” 

“Not she! Most of the horses pass through 
her hands. She’s got a wonderful way with 
them, and she’s generally out from daylight to 
dark. Just comes in for her dinner at one 
o’clock, like the grooms. Garry does the dumb 
jockey business and some training, but it’s really 
Jerry that breaks them, makes them, and shows 
them oflf. Sometimes she has as many as six or 
eight on hand.” 

“She must be invaluable to your uncle.” 

“Oh,” as if the idea was presented to her for 
the first time. “Maybe she is, but she likes 
open-air work, and she gets good value out of 
the horses, the best of hunting, and there’s not 
a lady so well turned out, as far as her horse, 
saddle, and habit go, in the whole of Ireland. 
Uncle Matt is awfully particular about her hunt- 
ing rig and gets it all from London.” (N.B. — 
It was simply a business investment.) 

“Indeed,” indifferently. 

“Yes, a new habit every year, and she meets 
lots of people out, and she is crazy about hunt- 
ing, and so, although I have seen her fit to drop 
— she was so tired, and her hands quite raw, 
without a bit of skin — yet it’s all made up to 
her, and she has a very good time, far better 
than I have,’*’ she concluded, in a lachrymose 
tone. Her companion had grave doubts oil the 
subject, and, at any rate, he was not enjoying 
at all “a good time,” and had no desire to linger 


132 BEYOND THE PALE 

in this damp old garden, in the distasteful so- 
ciety of Miss Tilly Scully ; and in spite of her 
anxious inquiries as to ‘‘Where’s your hurry?” 
he got himself away into the yard, and on to 
the back of Black Pat, with amazing dispatch. 

As Denis Money rode slowly up the avenue 
his steed gave a sudden shrill neigh, and, oh, 
joy! there to the left he caught sight of a bay 
flank, and the flutter of a blue habit. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

THE ORDER OF THE ROSE 

It proved to be Miss Jerry exercising a young 
one. Denis Money drew up, and waited, while 
Pat, who was still a mere boy, and had no con- 
trol over his feelings, whinnied an imperative 
summons to his stable companion, and his stable 
companion and rider presently came galloping 
up to the rails. 

Miss O’Bierne was looking her best; she had 
a color in her cheek and a light in her eyes. 
How royally she held her slender figure, what a 
look of simple maidenly dignity sat upon those 
firm but perfectly cut lips. What a contrast to 
his late associate, with her bold black eyes and 
embarrassing advances. 

“So glad to meet you,” he exclaimed, as he 
swept off his cap. “I have been down to the 
house to inquire for your injuries.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


133 


(Oh, Denis Money!) 

‘‘You mean my black eye. It has been a 
blue and a green and a. purple eye, but it is 
quite well, I thank you.” 

“I brought you over the book I promised. I 
hope you will like it. I left it with your cousin.” 

“Thank you so much; but Miss Scully is not 
my cousin,” rather haughtily. “She is no more 
related to me than,” with a little careless nod, 
“you are.” 

“Oh, I did not know. I hope you will like 
the book. You must let me hear what you 
think of it.” Then, seeing that her eyes were 
fixed upon his button-hole, he added, “I can 
guess what is in your mind now. You are 
thinking that I am a thief, but Miss Scully is 
the guilty party.” (Oh, true son of Adam!) 

“Then you acknowledge that you are a re- 
ceiver of stolen goods?” she exclaimed, with a 
merry glance. 

“Yes; but when I am found out I restore the 
stolen goods to their rightful owners. Here is 
your rose.” 

“Yo, no, on no account,” putting up a depre- 
cating hand. But even as the words left her 
lips he tossed it across the paling, and she 
caught it neatly. 

Luckily for the flower, it was none the worse 
for its hasty journey; and she held it up to her 
lips, and smiled wfith her long-lashed eyes. 

“Her beautiful eyes, how rarely they smiled, 
and how well a smile became them!” mentally 
remarked young Money. He was thinking 


134 


BEYOND THE PALE 


what an interesting personality was hers ; never 
before had he met any one the least like her. 
She was thinking, ‘‘How furious Tilly would 
be!’’ 

“Is virtue to be its own reward?” he asked, 
moving his horse still closer to the paling, where 
he and his schoolfellow amiably exchanged news 
and rubbed noses. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

He pointed dramatically to his now vacant 
button-hole. 

“Do you wish to have it back?” she asked, 
with a look of quiet wonder on her face. 

“Yes, if you will confer that honor upon 
me.” 

“Then here it is — the order of the rose,” and 
she threw it over, with a careless girlish laugh. 

But Garry, who passed on foot, totally unno- 
ticed, had witnessed this “rose play,” as he in- 
wardly dubbed it, and, to quote from “Aylmer’s 
Field,” “neither liked, nor loved, the thing he 
saw.” 

Poor Garry! Your disapproval is tardy and 
unavailing; that rose has been a special mes- 
senger, and the torch of love is lighted. 

Moments of memorable emotion stand up as 
milestones on life’s road; the gliding years catch 
us and hurry us from them, but we cannot resist 
looking back. Denis Money may travel till he 
is old, wayworn and weary, but as long as he 
has the faculty of recollection one landmark will 
never fade from his mental sight — the picture of 


BEYOND THE PALE 


135 


a beautiful, dark-eyed girl on horseback throw- 
ing him a yellow rose. 


When are you coming out with the hounds?” 
asked Denis, as he carefully replaced the flower. 

“As soon as the hunting begins in real ear- 
nest,” was her reply. “What do you think of 
this young one — Morning Star, rising four?” 

“I think she is Al as far as looks go, and fit 
to carry a — a — a queen!” and he surveyed her 
rider with eyes full of admiration. 

“Queens don’t follow the hounds,” she re- 
torted, “except the Empress of Austria. .1 
shall always feel fond of her. She brought over 
her horses, and hunted in Ireland.” 

“If that is a pass to your affections you ought 
to be fond of hundreds of people, including my- 
self.” 

“No,” she said, curtly. “I care for very 
few. In fact I could count them on the fingers 
of one hand — and leave out the thumb.’’ 

“Then please reserve the thumb for me — some 
day,” was his bold request. 

Miss O’Bkrne looked quickly over her shoul- 
der. 

Was she offended, was she alarmed? Was 
she going off? He hastened to stammer in an 
anxious key : 

“Are you not coming out cubbing on Tues- 
day?” 

“No,” confronting him gravely, “I am not. 
Mr. Scully despises cubbing, and even scorns 
the harriers.” 


136 


BEYOND THE PALE 


^‘You don’t say so?” with mock solemnity. 

‘‘Yes, he only cares for the fox hounds, a big 
meet, and a clipping run, to show off his hunt- 
ers.” 

“Oh, then he hunts!” 

“Not he,” with great scorn. “He hunts on 
wheels with Miss Scully, as you will see, and 
watches the performance of Garry and myself 
at a distance — sometimes through a fieldglass.” 

“And too far for him to use his knout — too 
far for flogging, eh?” 

• The girl’s bright face suddenly underwent a 
complete change. She colored deeply, as she 
surveyed the questioner with, a pair of proud 
and austere eyes. No, there was no merry 
twinkle in them now. 

After a long and embarrassed pause, she ex- 
claimed, “What a wonderful memory for little 
things! Well, I must not keep Morning Star 
standing — good-afternoon,” and, with a slight 
inclination of her head, he was dismissed. Yes, 
dismissed by Galloping Jerry, with as much 
hauteur as if she had been an archduchess and 
he some lackey who had had the misfortune to 
fall under her imperial displeasure. 

His allusion to the flogging had evidently of- 
fended her, and she had figuratively bowed him 
out. Poor Geraldine! He never dreamed how 
it galled her pride to remember that he had been 
a witness of that humiliating scene, when she 
had been sworn at like a horse, and her horse 
had been lashed like a dog. She blushed to 
recall it. Strange that she did not resent Ulick 


BEYOND THE PALE 137 

Doyne’s presence, only that of the English 
stranger, with his chivalrous air and haunting 
ey^s. 

And little did Money guess, as he rode away 
snubbed, crestfallen, but not disillusioned, how 
after a few turns, which gradually became 
shorter and shorter. Miss O’Bierne had sud- 
denly galloped home, in order to seize upon her 
precious book, while the donor, in another direc- 
tion, was slowly walking his horse along the 
road, the reins upon its neck, a wild new emo- 
tion surging in his heart. A floodgate had been 
opened. He had found his ideal! How he 
longed to return, just for one word of forgive- 
ness, only one, but dared not. 

The “Brooks of Bridlemere” had already been 
annexed by Tilly, who stormed in scarlet and 
screamed in fury that it was her property; and 
it was only after a heated and protracted alter- 
cation that she yielded it up to its rightful owner, 
Geraldine, who had maintained her temper 
throughout, and calmly pointed to the paper in 
which it had been wrapped. On this was writ- 
ten, in bold and legible characters : 

'‘Miss O’Bierne, • 

tVith Mr. D. Money’s compliments.” 

% “ What in the name of goodness does he want 

lending books to you?” shrieked Tilly, in her 
shrillest key. 

Geraldine made no reply, but smoothed out 
the pa'per, folded it carefully, and tied it with 


138 


BEYOND THE PALE 


its piece of string. This did not surprise the 
other in the least — Jerry was as neat as an old 
maid — but she undoubtedly would have been 
amazed had she seen Jerry, in the privacy of 
her own attic, lock away that v^ery piece of 
brown paper among her scanty treasures. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

RESERVED FOR THE FAMILY 

No later than the following day found Mr. 
Money again at Racehill ! He was determined 
to see more of Miss O’Bierne; though ostensibly 
he had come *to consult Scully about a slight 
swelling on the Squire’s off fore-fetlock. He 
was well served for his hypocrisy; for he dis- 
covered not only Scully, but Casey Walshe, in 
the stables. The former insisted on bringing 
out several new purchases, while Casey stood by 
picking his teeth, and conducting himself with 
such an air of critical condescension that it was 
all Money could do to restrain himself from be- 
laboring him there and theii. He caught con- 
tinuous flashes of a scarlet cloak at doors and 
windows, but not one single glimpse of a dark 
blue skirt, nor did he again see that same blue 
skirt until the hunting season had opened. 

However, he saw Miss O’Bierne in her walk- 
ing dress in church on Sunday. Denis was not 
a regular attendant at public worship, and it 


BEYOND THE PALE 


139 


must be confessed that he constantly endeavored 
to shirk family prayers. As Carrig was at the 
present moment full of guests, his father had 
said after breakfast, in a rather pointed way : 

^^Of course you are coming to church, Denis? 
We are all going in the char-a-banc. You and 
Lady Flora can have the cart or walk; it’s,” 
turning to the lady, ‘‘only a mile across the 
demesne, an avenue the whole way.” 

“Oh, I’d far rather walk.” she said. 
“Wouldn’t you?” appealing to Denis. “It will 
be so much nicer.”' And thus the matter was 
settled without reference to him. 

The church, or Carrig Abbey, as it was called, 
was a venerable edifice of the fourteenth cent- 
ury, partly restored. A great portion was still 
in ruins, but the chancel had been roofed in one 
hundred years previously, and accommodated 
a sufficiently large congregation. It boasted 
stained glass windows, an organ, and the family 
pews of the Dwyers, Hares, and O’Biernes. 
The Hares still occupied theirs, also the Dwyers. 
It was almost all that remained to them, the* 
outward and visible sign of their former great 
estate. The O’Biernes were not so fortunate — 
they had passed — they lay in the vast vaults in 
the nave, and their place knew them no more. 
The family pew was let with the house, and 
never had Mrs. Anthony Money felt so devout, 
or so truly and piously thankful for all the mer- 
cies vouchsafed to her, as when she knelt upon 
its worn velvet hassocks, and raised her eyes to 
the crowd of marble monuments above her head. 


140 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Lady Flora and her escort were early; the 
bell was still tolling, and the farmer congrega- 
tion stood about in groups in the graveyard, 
discussing land bills, markets — and their absent 
friends. 

‘‘It is not time to go in yet, the others have 
not arrived, you see,” she said. “Do let us ex- 
plore these most interesting old ruins.” Most 
of the monuments were so timeworn as to be 
illegible, many were in Latin, some in Irish. 
The name of O’Bierne and the motto “O’Bierne 
a Boo” (O’Bierne forever) was noticeable on 
many a gray and weather-beaten stone that 
lined the walls and paved the ruined roofless 
nave, ^ 

“O’Bierne forever!” What withering irony 
in those few words, faintly traced upon the 
graves of a forgotten and almost extinct race! 
In the center of the churchyard stood a solid 
and majestic erection, covered with inscriptions 
and heraldic bearings ; a flight of stone steps led 
down to a massive door below the level of the 
ground. Though much worn by time and 
decay, broken, weather-stained and neglected, 
nevertheless it still possessed a sufficiently im- 
posing appearance to command a stranger’s first 
attention. 

“What tomb is that?” inquired Lady Flora, 
touching it with her smart umbrella. 

“I don’t know, I am sure,” responded her 
companion. “Looks like; a royal mausoleum. ” 

“Then I can tell you, me lady,” volunteered 
a respectable old farmer, approaching as he 


BEYOXD THE PALE 


141 


spoke. ‘‘ ’Tis the entrance to the great vaults 
of the O’Biernes. This solid construction is 
their monument.” 

“Is it, indeed! It looks most imposing.” 

“An’ there ye ’can see the family arms, the 
horse, and the* motto above the door. Faix, 
what with racing and breaking their necks, they 
had a good right to have horses on their tomb.” 

“Are there many of the family buried here?” 

“There is a power of them below, but with 
this terrible weight of marble they will be hard 
set to get out at the Day of Judgment — and, 
faix,” with a knowing nod, “maybe they are as 
well where they are!” 

‘ ‘ Have you the privilege of being buried here?’ ’ 
asked Lady Flora, turning to Denis with laugh- 
ing eyes. “Does it go with the shooting?” 

“Not at all,” broke in the farmer, indignantly. 
“That’s just the wan home of the O’Biemes that 
never can be sold, let, or mortgaged; it is re- 
served for the family ; and wance the little girlie 
beyant goes in the door will be closed till the 
end of the world. No, faix, there’s no admit- 
tance for strangers — money or no money.” 
Then,, recollecting himself, “Meaning no offense, 
yer honor,” touching his hat to Denis. 

“And no offense is taken, Maguire. It’s a 
good step from your place to church.” 

“Yes, it is. I’ve come to hear the Dane.” 

“Dane?” repeated Lady Flora. 

“The Dane of Kilgroo. He’s a great fellow. 
A terribly boisterous preacher, that rouses the 
blood. Bedad, the last time he was here he 


142 


BEYOND THE PALE 


knocked the big Bible out of the pulpit, and 
as to the cushion there was hardly a tatther 
of it together/’ 

‘‘I hope we are at a safe distance,” exclaimed 
Lady Flora, with pretended alarm. 

‘‘Oh, yes, well out of the way. Have you 
seen any woodcock in your part, Maguire?” 

“No, sir, the winter is too open yet;” then, 
with a sly smile, “but they do be telling me as 
yer honor is not very eager about shooting.” 

“Nonsense,” with a laugh. “What poacher 
told you that? Well, tell me one thing, what is 
all this that has been scratched up here?” point- 
ing to a recently cut inscription just above the 
door of the tomb. . 

‘ ‘ Great powers ! The liberties of some, though 
maybe they mean no harm. Will yer honor 
spell it off, as yer a fine height, and I’m no 
great scholar, though I can read most print?” 

“Yes, do read it if you can,” urged Lady 
Flora. “I am too short,” standing on tiptoe. 
“It looks like poetry.” 

Thus requested, Denis raised himself on a 
projecting stone, and slowly read aloud : 

“ ‘ In a quiet, watered land — a land of roses — V’ 

“Oh, begad, I know it,” interrupted the 
farmer, slapping his leg excitedly. 

“ ‘ In a quiet, watered land — a land of roses,’ ” 

repeated Money, with deliberate utterance, 

“ ‘ Stands St. Kieran’s city fair, 

And the warriors of Erin, in their famous generations, 
Slumber there. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


143 


Many and many a son of Con, the Hundred fighter, 

In. the Red Earth lies at Rest, 

Many a blue-e^^e of Clan Colman— the turf covers, 
Many a swan white breast.’” 

There ensued a momentary silence; and then 
Lady Flora exclaimed, with a little scornful 
titter : 

“Dear me, how truly funny.” 

“I think it beautiful,” said Denis, gravely. 
“Yes, and most appropriate too, on the tombs 
of these dead Irish chieftains.” 

“Begor, they were great in their day, and had 
their soldiers, and their harpers, and their cas- 
tles, and fought bloody battles, and ruled the 
country, and died for it, too. And who remem- 
bers them now, or cares a hate about them?” 
demanded the farmer somewhat fiercely. 

“Where are the lines from?” asked Denis. 

“From the dead of Clon-Macnoise.” 

“And what, or where, is Clon-Macnoise?” 

“I believe it’s down the Shannon, sir, a great 
ruined city, where all the old Irish kings had 
churches and buried their dead ; no matter how 
hard they fought agin one another when they 
were living they were all laid together after 
death. Yes^ them’s fine lines, but I a’most 
wonder it didn’t bring old Brian out, strangers 
scrawling over the family monument. He 
never allowed no liberties when he was alive. 
Faix, it was him could give an impident spalpeen 
a flaking wid a dog whip. Musha, but he was 
the grand-looking gentleman, and poor Mr. 
Gerald the very spit av him — Isn’t that the bell 


144 


BEYOND THE PALE 


that’s afther stopping?” and with a hasty salu- 
tation he hurried away. 

‘‘How all these Irish do stick up for their old 
families. They are even more clannish than we 
Scotch,” said Lady Flora, as they followed the 
farmer. “And how very firmly he was re- 
solved that there should be no intruders in the 
vaults of the O^Biernes.” 

“Yes, I’m sure I have no desire to trespass.” 

“Pray, who is the little girlie for whom alone 
they are to be opened?” 

“Miss O’Bierne.” 

“What! not the girl who rides?” she asked 
in a sharp key; but just then Denis removed his 
hat, and motioned her to precede him; they 
were inside the church, or at least they were 
inside the porch, and the door was wide open. 

In this porch, with the rope in his hand (still 
tolling), stood the sexton, who combined the 
duties of pew-opener and bell-ringer, and the bell 
tolled but fitfully, and gave many false alarms, 
for when the ringer was showing strangers into 
seats he was compelled to relinquish his rope. 
There was a curious barn-like naodern aisle, 
lighted by pointed windows with red blinds; its 
whitewashed walls connected the porch with the 
chancel. The chancel was extremely ancient, 
and contained monuments, brasses, carvings, 
and great family pews. Here were already 
seated the large and fashionable contingent 
from Oarrig. The Carrig pew was a square 
inclosure, capable of accommodating twenty 
people, was furnished with a fireplace, a table, 


BEYOND THE PALE 145 

and numerous luxurious if somewnat shabby 
chairs, and for a considerable distance above, 
and at either side, the wall was covered with 
brasses, tablets, and solid marble monurnents, 
erected to the dearly beloved memory of numer- 
ous dead and gone O’Biernes. They ranged 
from the almost obliterated name of Mai Garo, 
chief of the O’Biernes, Prince of Inagh, who 
died of his wounds after the battle of Athenry, 
1317, and Ivar O’Bierne, who, with many clans- 
men, fell at the battle of Bealach Buidhe (the 
yellow pass), fighting against the Euglish, 1599, 
down to Gerald, who was killed in the hunting- 
field, January, 1872. 

For an Irish parish, the congregation was con- 
siderable, and by the time the psalms were 
chanted the church was full. Denis noted the 
two old Miss Dwyers, white, frail, bloodless- 
looking women, in black, who occupied an im- 
posing seat beneath the names of a cloud of dis- 
tinguished ancestors — and yet these two poor 
ladies had walked to church, and would proba- 
bly dine on bread and milk. There, in the body 
of the aisle, in a line with the- Carrig servants, 
were ranged the family from Racehill. Scully, 
in a very tight, dark coat, sitting by the 'door, 
devout, in spectacles; next came Casey Walshe, 
his hair highly greased, his tie half concealed by 
a sporting pin, looking about and fidgeting in- 
cessantly; Tilly, wearing a wonderful red velvet 
hat and white feather boa, staring hard at him ; 
and Miss O’Bierne, rather aloof at the top of the 
pew, absorbed in an immense old-fashioned sil- 


146 


BEYOND THE PALE 


ver clasped Bible. Her eyes never strayed, as 
did his own. The singing was unexpectedly 
good, the organ had a fine mellow tone; it had 
been presented to the parish by Brian O’Bierne; 
and Brian’s granddaughter was sitting in what 
had been the pew of l^is upper servants. 

The ‘‘Dane” preached; he gave an eloquent, 
rousing discourse, in a rich, sonorous brogue; 
there were no casualties, and an unusually 
liberal collection. 

When the service was over every one poured 
from church. People paused outside to talk to 
their friends, like with like. The Hares and 
Mrs. Vance accosted Mrs. Monej^; and her 
large party (a dozen) was soon the center of a 
great gathering. As Denis stood at the gate he 
noticed Scully strutting down the path; som^ of 
the farmers said “Morning, Matt; fine day, Mr. 
Scully.” Casey and a suitable-looking friend 
walked by, conversing in eager whispers. 
Lastly, Miss O’Bierne alone. Tilly had met an 
acquaintance. He observed that she was se- 
verely ostracized by all the gentlefolk. No, not 
one of them took the smallest notice of her. But 
he also observed that the very men who had said 
“Morning, Matt,” touched their hats to his step- 
daughter with an air of profound respect. 

“How do you do?” he said, eagerly holding 
out his hand. 

She looked somewhat surprised, as she took it 
for a second. Then, seeing Lady Flora tripping 
down on them, she turned abruptly away and 
joined Matt Scully. 


BEYOND THE PALE ' 


147 


“You and I are to drive home,” proclaimed 
Lady Flora from afar. “I shall drive; I love 
it. There’s the cart, and the pony is digging 
up the road, impatient to be off. Come along, 
come along.” 

In another moment he had handed his com- 
panion in and seated himself beside her, and 
they started at a rattling pace. They passed 
Miss O’Bierne, walking sadly between Scully and 
Casey Walshe. How different she appeared on 
foot, how skimpy and meager her serge jacket 
and skirt, what a cheap, unbecoming hat ! She 
looked so slight, so childish — altogether another 
person from the bold and bewitching horse- 
woman he had been carrying in his mind’s eye. 
What a desperate contrast to the young lady 
beside him, dressed by a court milliner, turned 
out cap a pie by a smart maid, her furs, her 
waved hair, her toque of white satin, her tink- 
ling enamel bangles, all embodying the latest 
fashion, absolutely le dernier cri^ and she was 
so full of go, and chaff, and chatter, and self- 
importance. 

“Is that the girl?” she asked, with a quick 
glance as they tore past; “The one who has 
the sole right to bury in the O’Bierne vault? 
Dear me ! What a shabby, paltry-looking 
creature! I should say that if she were to join 
the rest of her relatives it would not affect any* 
one very seriously. Ah, there is the doctor’s 
car ahead; wait till you see how I shall over- 
take him.” 

In five minutes’ time Lady Flora had left the 


148 


BEYOND THE PALE 


doctor out of sight, as well as poor shabby 
Geraldine, who was tramping along the muddy 
road between her two most uncongenial com- 
panions. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

“l RIDE TO sell” 

The hunting season opened with a large meet, 
just outside the main entrance to Lord Scariff’s 
demesne. The long, straight road was choked 
with carriages as far as the eye could reach. 
There were Lady Scariff and party in a yellow 
landau, the Ladies Beleek in a high dogcart, 
Mrs. Money and Lady Flora in a victoria, Mrs. 
Vance driving a smart piebald cob in a village 
cart, accompanied by her uncle, and Kathleen 
mounted on the brougham horse — yet happy. 
Matt Scully presided over a pair o£ fine bays in 
a wagonette; beside him sat Tilly, wearing a 
fearful and wonderful green cape, trimmed with 
cocks’ feathers, with hat to correspond, and 
beaming affably on all the world. Casey had 
the body of the conveyance to himself, and was 
in sole eha;rge of the sandwiches and flask. 

Mr. Money was riding the Squire, his son 
* Black Pat, and there were more than a hundred 
other horsemen and women present— "some in 
society, some beyond its pale. 

Notable among the latter was Miss O’Bierne, 
splendidly mounted, and wearing a new Busvine 


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149 


habit (but not the sacred hunt buttoii) ; in fact, 
such was her appearance that sev'eral men 
(strangers) were astounded to learn, in answer 
to inquiries, that she was ‘‘only Matt Scully’s 
little riding girl.” She and her attendant, 
Garry — he smartly turned out as hunting 
groom — held themselves severely aloof from 
all. Denis Money glanced at her repeatedly; 
she was the picture of a horsewoman, her 
hunter the picture of a horse. • There was not 
a girl or a woman present to touch her, so dis- 
tinguished was her air, so proud her mien. Why 
did she keep so far away? Was she influenced 
by humility or pride? For his own part, he was 
excessively anxious to get near her; but so great 
was the block that it was impossible to do so. 
He made several thrusting efforts, but was in- 
variably shut in by the carriages and foiled. 

“Ah, ha, my fine fellow, I know what you 
are up to,” remarked Mr. Hare, who was along- 
side of him in the cart. “You’ll see plenty of 
her, at least of her back, by-and-by, when the 
hounds are running. It’s wonderful the taste 
that family have always had for trying to break 
their necks.” 

“Oh, do just look at Tilly Scully,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Vance. “How can she make such an aw- 
ful show of herself? She has stripped the whole 
poultry yard.” 

“So she has, poor things! Well, I suppose 
she knows no better, or maybe it’s fora bet,” 
suggested Mr. Hare. “Hullo, hullo. Money, 
she kissed her hand to you. Did you see? I 


150 


BEYOND THE PALE 


had no idea that you were such a friend as 
all that/’ 

^‘Friend!” raising his hat about an inch. 
‘‘I’ve only spoken to her twice in my life.” 

“I’d advise you to rest content with that. 
Tilly has a ‘kick in her gallop.’ Oh, I could 
tell you stories about the Scullys, and that 
set—”' 

“Nothing about Jerry O’Bierne, at any rate,” 
hastily interrupted Mrs. Vance. “That is so 
certain that I’ll bet my best toque against Tilly’s 
crazy hat.” 

“No, no. Certainly not, my dear. Her 
story has yet to be told, and will be, unless I 
am much mistaken, something quite out of the 
common.” 

“What do you mean, Uncle Tom?” 

“Time will tell, and, while I think of it, I 
may as well relate a little anecdote about her 
mother.” 

“What was she like?” asked Mrs. Vance, 
eagerly. 

“A pretty, useless, lackadaisical, fine madam!” 

‘ And. her daughter is the very opposite!” 

“She is. She is an O’Bierne — a capable, cou- 
rageous, spirited, fine madam, unless I’m mis- 
taken. Well, Mrs. Scully made a great strug- 
gle to be received after her second marriage, but 
no one would see her. When she called they 
were always out. They tell this story of the 
Sullivans — once her most intimate friends; she 
went there, and when the man said ‘Not at 
home,’ she disconcerted him greatly by walking 


BEYOND THE PALE 


151 


past with a remark that she ‘would just write a 
note in the drawing-room’ ; and when she sailed 
iiij what' do you think she beheld? but the two 
Sullivans and their great fat mother, lying 
stretched out upon the floor f The drawing- 
room is overlooked and commanded by the 
drive, and they were, as they fondly believed, 
hiding till she drove away.” 

“What did she say or do?” asked Mrs. Vance, 
breathlessly. 

“She said, ‘I know I’ve come down in the 
world, but I’ve never fallen so lotv as this,^ 
and marched out with the honors of war.” 

“She Certainly scored there,” said Money, 
with a boyish laugh. “Ah, here come the 
hounds at last, and time for them.” 

The Garrick cover was a sure find, and soon 
a stout old dog fox was on foot, and the meet 
scattered far and wide. The people on wheels 
went in one direction, the riders who made for 
short cuts and open gates another, while those 
who really meant business (in all a numerous 
company) sailed away at the tail of the pack. 
None more forward than Miss O’ Bier ne, riding 
quietly — no thrusting, no flurry, but with great 
judgment and determination. Strive as he would, 
and he strove hard, Denis Money could not get 
within half a field of her — then a whole field lay 
between them — apparently, it was not the hounds 
he was pursuing, but the girl on the bay thor- 
oughbred. 

It proved a long and exhausting run, the day 
was muggy and close for November, the going 


Ibii BEYOND THE PALE 

bad, the fences enormous. Black Pat had had 
enough of it by the first check, and as his rider 
had broken a stirrup leather, neither he nor his 
master, nor, indeed, but few of the pursuers, 
saw the end of the run. Mr. Money, senior, on 
the Squire, was among the happy and select 
number that were up at the finish. With a 
good start and a good mount, Anthony Money 
was occasionally a hard man to hounds, and on 
the strength of their mutual acquaintance, the 
Squire, he ventured to present himself to Miss 
O’Bierne. Whatever she was elsewhere, she 
was undeniably the queen of the hunting held. 
His rather slow, elderly blood took fire as he 
watched the slender, audacious figure ever be- 
fore him, ruling her wild thoroughbred as if by 
some magic influence, now soaring over a gate, 
now springing deer-like on an “on and off” 
double, now stretching away over the field’s at 
racing speed. 

The brush was Miss O’Bierne’s well won prize; 
and as the}^ jogged home side by side along the 
dim lanes, she being guide to the party, Mr. 
Money was amazed to discover that she was 
quite a lady! No swearing, no slang, no horsey 
talk, and not even one cigarette. She was a lit- 
tle distant in her manner; was it shyness, was 
she penetrated with a sense of her own insignifi- 
cance, or could it be pride? 

As the pair rode along side by side (Racehill 
was on the road to Carrig) Mr. Money was en- 
joying himself vastly. What with the exhilara- 
tion of the late run, the stimulating society of 


BEYOND THE PALE 


153 


this charming companion, and the innocent 
witchery of her presence, he began to feel as 
if the last twenty years had slipped off his back. 
They discussed hunting, horses (the Squire, of 
course), they talked of scenery, of Ireland, and 
of the Irish people. 

“My father’s people were Irish, and though I 
never was in the country till a few months ago, 
yet I cannot tell you how my heart warms to 
it,” confessed Mr. Money. 

“And you don’t think us all barbarians?” 

“No, indeed, no barbarous nation could pos- 
sess such beautiful aifd pathetic music — and such 
kind hearts.” 

“ What part of Ireland did your father come 
from?” 

“I am not very clear about that; he was al- 
ways extremely close about his past, and never 
mentioned • any particulars as to where he was 
born, or who were his people.” 

Could it really be Anthony Money who was 
thus jogging home in the dusk so happily beside 
Jerry O’Bierne, talking so unrestrainedly, and 
telling her all his family history? What would 
his wife have said? 

“We always had an impression that he be- 
longed to some great family, for he spoke with 
deep affection and pride of a beautiful place, the 
most splendid in the world in his opinion, which 
was evidently associated with his youth. He 
described a deer forest, a pack of hounds, acres 
of gardens, miles of avenues, but I never heard 
him mention the precise locality, though I’ve 


154 


BEYOND THE PALE 


\ 

some recollection of the name Clorane. Did 
you ever hear of such an estate?” 

‘‘No, no, except — yes, there’s a miserable lit- 
tle village at the back of the Horse Leap Moun- 
tain of that name; it is on the Carrig property.” 

“Ah, well, I daresay I shall never know,” 
and he sighed profoundly. 

“It is quite a romantic story,” observed the 
young lady. “Probably your father came from 
one of the big places out far West.” 

“Most likely— the family, his family, were 
pure Irish, lords of the soil for centuries,^ war- 
riors who had fought fiercely against the Nor- 
mans in the West and Essex in the South. 
Well, no estate. North, South, East, or West, 
can surpass Carrig, in my opinion. I hope you 
won’t mind my saying so. Miss O’Bierne?” 
What was there about this girl that impelled 
him to address her with such deference? Lady 
Flora, no, not even Lady Bundoran herself, had 
ever filled him with so much involuntary respect. 
“Perhaps I should not mention the place to 
you under the circumstances,” he added rather 
lamely. 

“Why not? Since some one must live there, 
I am very glad it is in your hands, for you ap- 
preciate it and like it.” 

“And you. Miss O’Bierne?” 

“All O’Biernes like Carrig, and I love it; and 
although it indirectly killed my grandfather, and 
broke my father’s heart, yet the first thing Ido 
every morning, when I get up, is to look o^er at 
the woods at Carrig; it is my Mecca.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


155 


hope you will come and stay there some 
day, Miss O’Bierne.” And through the twi- 
light he looked up at the beautiful proud face 
turned toward him. (Oh, Anthony Money, if 
your wife could but hear you! She, of course, 
would be insensible to the fascination of this 
dark-eyed witch, who had thrown the sedate 
elderly brain of her husband completely otf its 
balance.) 

‘‘I am much obliged to you, Mr. Money, but 
I am afraid that could not be — and now there is 
Racehill gate. I wonder if you would be greatly 
offended if I offered you this?’^ and she touched 
the brush which dangled at the off-side of her. 
saddle. ‘‘I have hunted so long that I have 
ceased to keep them, and you were up just as 
soon as I was. It is your first day on the dear 
old Squire, and I should like him to carry home 
the brush.” 

Was Mr. Money elated? Was he flattered? 
Was he proud? Yes, and this was such a deli- 
cate way of putting it that, after some half- 
hearted protestation (in which he might have 
been a bashful girl and she a pressing young 
man), he accepted it, with many thanks, say- 
ing, ‘‘I shall take it, and have it set up in the 
best manner in memory of my first day on the 
Squire, and of the pleasantest ride I ever had in 
my life.” 

(How would Mrs. Money have liked this?) 
And then he venturned to hold out his hand — 
yes, venture was the word. (What was the 
meaning of this suddenly roused feeling of per- 


156 


BEYOND THE PALE 


sonal subordination?) Miss O’Bierne took it, 
and, having pressed it warmly, Mr. Money 
turned about, and set off homeward in the 
highest spirits. He had quite lost his heart 
to little Miss O’Bierne! He would tell Denis 
all about it — when they were by themselves 
after dinner. She was one of the old regime^ 
and yet she was so sweet, so simple, so un-. 
affected. What a horsewoman! What glori- 
ous eyes ! (Mr. Money, I am sure yotir wife 
would not be at all pleased if she could read 
your thoughts — and we are coming to that 
soon.) 

It was those eyes that dragged words from 
his lips when they smiled and put a drag upon 
his tongue when they looked grave. What a 
day he had had altogether. As for the brush, 
what a crow over Denis! 

Resolved by Mr. Money and his son, that it 
would be necessary to buy some more hunters 
immediately; what were eight between two 
men? Within the next few days Denis had 
purchased four new horses from Mr. Scully 
(who, to quote from Casey Walshe, “Stuck it 
on well”), and was haunted during the trans- 
action by Tilly in her red cloak; she seemed to lie 
in wait for him, and, at last, he began to dread 
the color scarlet as much as any fox — and to be 
nearly as cunning in* evading it. 

At meets he made his way boldly up to Miss 
O’Bierne; he was proud of knowing her, and 
flaunted his advantages in the eyes of numerous 
envious young men, who would have liked to 


BEYOND THE PALE 


157 


accoBt her, but dared not. In the first place, 
the eyes of the county — i c:, lady entertainers 
— were upon them, and in the second place, 
“Scully’s little girl” was as unapproachable in 
her way as Monte Rosa. 

Denis Money, of course, went here and there 
among the ladies in carriages, and had a word 
with most people; he was a young man who 
was a general favorite, and many eyes followed 
him with fond expectation. The Miss De 
Braynes were well aware that, no matter how 
pleasant he might be to them, all this attention 
was discounted by the miles he would ride home 
in December’s dusk by the side of that horrid, 
black-haired, little Irish girl. They declared 
that “he was making himself quite conspicu- 
ous, and every one knew that she was a jockey 
in petticoats, and a most disreputable, scheming 
creature.” 

One day, as Money and Miss O’Bierne were 
trotting side by side from cover to cover, he 
remarked : 

“That was a splendid burst; there* is nothing 
like hunting, is there?” 

“No,” with a smileless face, “I suppose not.” 

“You suppose not! I should have thought 
you would have been even a greater enthusiast 
than I am myself, if possible.” 

“I would be, if I were like you; but you see, 
you hunt for pleasure and excitement, I ride 
merely to sell. This horse is sold. Mr. Scully 
sold him ten minutes ago to Colonel Lane, of 
the Gray Hussars. I’ve known Lancer here 


158 


BEYOND THE PALE 


from a foal. I’ve a foolish way of getting fond 
of horses, but I always feel that the better a 
horse carries me the sooner we must part. 
Lancer and I are old comrades, and now he 
is going to England, and we shall never, nev^er 
meet again; this is my last ride on him. Oh, 
Lancer, why, why did you jump so well to-day? 
Well, at any rate, you’ve fetched two hundred 
guineas — that’s some comfort.” 

^‘Mr. Scully ought to give you half,” declared 
her companion. 

‘‘Give me half !” with an amused smile. “No, 
indeed, he gives me a home, and allows me twenty 
pounds a year for dress and pocket money.” 

“Twenty pounds! Why, my stepmother spends 
more than that on a cotton frock.” 

“A cotton frock! She couldn’t, surely. I 
made one myself last summer, and it cost me 
gix shillings, buttons and all.” 

“Oh, yes, but hers was rather swagger, and 
had a lot of silk somewhere and lace. She al- 
ways gets her clothes in Paris.” Then he found 
himself wondering how “Ju” would look in a 
six shilling cotton costume, made by herself, 
and Miss O’Bierne in a French gown? 

“Don’t you ever bring out Dancing Girl?” 
he asked, after a pause. 

“No, not often; you see, riding her is not 
business, she is supposed to be mj" very own. I 
don’t think Mr. Scully would sell her, but if he 
saw her going well he might be tempted.” 

“But if she is your very own — ” 

“They only call her that in the yard; for 


BEYOND THE PALE 


159 


when she was two months old, her mother broke 
her leg, and had to be shot, and they were going 
to kill the foal, but 1 begged for her and reared 
her on milk. After a very struggling childhood, 
she throve, then she was turned into the horse 
park, then she was trained, and has become 
what you see.” 

At this moment they were passed by Lady 
Scariff’s landau and party — Mr. Hare was on 
the box. They smiled radiantly at Money, 
gazed stonily at his companion, and he no- 
ticed that the eager little gossip looked back 
over his shoulder, and then leaned down, and 
said something to one of the Miss De Braynes, 
at which they all laughed. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 
“the light of OTHEiR DAYS” 

On St. Stephen’s Day the staghounds met 
within eight miles of Racehill, and although 
Scully did not much care for “calf-hunting,” as 
he profanely termed it, yet he drove Geraldine 
and Garry over in the wagonette — having sent 
their horses on. The meet was at Bundoran 
Park, and, it being a general holiday, the lawn 
and approach were black with pedestrians; many 
cari-iages were present,' and a large and assorted 
crowd of horsemen (among which a man with a 
bag might be seen going about collecting half- 


160 


BEYOND THE PALE 


crowns), a party of ‘‘wreckers” — a trade pe- 
culiar to stag hunting — were also in waiting, 
prepared to run with the pack, and to earn a 
day s work at the first fence. 

Mr. Scully’s wagonette was the center of an 
animated group while Geraldine and Garry were 
mounting their hunters — Dancing Girl and a big 
gray, a notorious kicker, who fiaunted a red rib- 
bon bow on his tail. 

“A fine, raking horse. Matt,” said a bystander. 
“I saw him out last week, a terrible bould lepper, 
but, begor, I’d sooner be in front of him than 
behind him. He gallops in good form, too.” 

“He’ll need to gallop all he knows to-day,” 
remarked another, “for it’s Faugh a-Ballagh is 
the deer; he goes away clean out of sight like 
the v^ery wind.” 

“And isn’t he in the right of it?” asked a 
third. “Sure where’s his fun,^ in being down in 
a narrow ditch with, maybe, twenty heavy dogs 
on the top of him, tearing him to pieces? I won- 
der what side he’ll take.” 

“If if's the Borra country, I pity ye,” ex- 
claimed the first speaker. “Begob, the man 
that follows that line needs to be a good swim- 
mer! Garry, me darlin’, can ye take the 
wather?” 

“^Yes, I can,” growled Garry, “and widout 
whisky,” with a significant glance that raised 
a loud laugh at his questioner’s expense. 

It was now one o’clock, and every one eagerly 
awaited the uncarting of the deer. It proved to 
be a magnificent red stag, the hero of several 


BEYOND THE PALE 


161 


notable runs. As soon as he was enlarged he 
gave the spectators a tquch of his quality by 
jumping into tlie garden over a solid stone wall 
eight feet high, which performance drew forth 
wild screams of applause and hoarse deafen- 
ing cheers from the multitude on the lawn. 
He started off on his journey, as fine an animal 
as ever crossed a pasture, toward the much 
dreaded Borra districts, but luckily turned 
sharply to the left, the hounds wheeling and 
working out the line, and here the field came up 
— about sixty determined pursuers — including, 
among others, Miss O’Bierne, Kathleen Hare 
(on a borrowed horse), the two Moneys, and 
Lord Bundoran, for once oblisdous of old Egypt. 
However, the famous double at Kildangan emp- 
tied about a dozen saddles (and now the ‘‘wreck- 
ers,” who ran with the deer, had an admirable « 
opportunity of using their spades and ropes, and 
reaped a grand harvest), those who got over 
never stopping to make inquiries, as the hounds 
were fl^dng. They crossed a road, through a 
back gate into a great park, the pack streaming 
before them, the deer a distant speck. This 
was galloping! this was life! Then the course 
suddenly lay through big grass fields and over 
formidable fences — one of these yawners swal- 
lowed Mr. Money and the Squire. Here coun- 
try people were running and halloaing, road 
riders came storming up, mixing with the thun- 
dering of wheels, excited carriage horses, and 
sporting coachmen. Up to this, there was not 
a single clieck. However, the deer now got 


162 


BEYOND THE PALE 


among cattle, and at last came a much-needed 
rest. Presently the hpunds crossed a tillage 
farm, a wood, and again began •to race. Close 
big banks and tenants’ holdings pumped out not 
a few hunters, and Garry and the first whip were 
no more seen. The few survivors still galloped 
on doggedly, and the deer, who seemed utterly 
fearless, now cleared a great stone and mortar 
wall nearly nine feet high. The huntsman hav- 
ing whipped off the hounds, after a considerable 
delay laid them on again. At this time there 
were only six people riding with the pack — the 
Master, Mr. Louth, an officer from Ballybawl, 
Mr. Denis Money, the huntsman. Miss O’Bierne, 
and a rough rider on a young one. The country 
gradually grew wilder and wilder, and exhibited 
barren, stony fields, grass-grown lanes, and rush- 
fringed watercourses. There was no sign of life, 
beyond curlew and plover, and a few half-starved 
mountain cattle. Dusk was falling, they were 
in a totally unknown district, but the gallant 
little band still held on, though it was evident 
that none of them could last much longer. Danc- 
ing Girl’s heart was thumping fast under her 
blue girths. Black Pat’s long legs were begin- 
ning to fail him. At length the stag, who pos- 
sibly thought he had come far enough, made 
boldly for an open cabin, where he was taken, 
seemingly as fresh as paint, on the top of an old 
woman’s bed. 

‘‘Two hours and forty minutes, including 
checks,” said the Master, pulling out his watch, 
and leaving the reins on the neck of his panting 


BEYOKD THE PALE 


163 


* weight-carrier. “And now, perhaps, some one 
I will kindly tell me where we are?” and he looked 
I round for a reply. 

“Begor, I know,” answered the trainer, jump- 
ing off his exhausted animal. “We are at the 
back of God’s Speed, an’ I’m five-and-twenty 
miles from home this blessed minute — and I see 
no way of getting this mare back, unless I carry 
her!” 

“But where are we, man alive?” repeated Mr. 
Louth. 

“Near the mountains, as ye may judge. Tinad'e 
is our nearest telegraph, but there’s a sort of a 
small town or village called Oola, about half a 
mile off, where, maybe, we will get a sup of 
meal and water for the horses and a mouthful 
of something stronger ourselves — ay, and tay 
for the lady. Mor-ya!” suddenly taking off his 
cap and addressing Geraldine, “but your riding 
bates everything, miss — and the mare there is 
the divil’s sister.” 

“Can you show us the way?” she asked. 

“Well, I’ll make an offer, anyhow, unless the 
garron here dies under me,” but, looking com- 
placently around the steaming circle, he added, 
“We’re all pretty well done, and small blame.” 

“That is indeed a. wonderful mare of yours,” 
remarked the Master to Jerry, as she rode down 
hill between him and Money. “.What does Mr. 
Scully want for her?” ^ 

^ “She is not for sale,” said Miss O’Bierne, as 
she threw back her head rather haughtily, 

“Not for sale!” incredulously. 


164 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘No, she belongs to me.” 

“Then I must congratulate you with all my 
heart. She is an animal worthy to carry you.” 

Jerry made no reply. 'This sort of compliment 
was as familiar as it was contemptible. 

“We will have the horses rubbed down in. this 
village,” pointing to a long street. “There is 
sure to be some sort of inn or shebeen, where we 
can at least get tea and whisky.” 

As they .rode up the street, behind the hounds, 
enthusiastic crowds poured out of cottages and 
swarmed around men and horses, exchanging 
vociferous greetings with the huntsmen and 
rough-rider. 

“Begorra, it was thirty mile if it was a yard,” 
cried one excited admirer. “Sure didn’t they 
come through Cool-na-Bawn, and that’s five 
from Fleske, and ye know very well where 
that is.” 

“And will ye look at the lady,” screeched an- 
other. “Will ye look at the little girlie that 
rode so stout, and swam the Bawn river. Faix, 
it takes me back to wan of the O’Biernes, that 
lepped the canal at the forty-ninth lock.” 

“Sure an’ isn’t she an O’Bierne?” announced 
another, in an angry scream. “The last of the 
ould stock; see how the raal old blood tells in 
the long run.” 

“An’ it was a damned long run,” remarked 
a man; and at this there was a ready laugh. 

At the door of the O’Bierne Arms (the only 
two-storied slated house in the village), Geral- 
dine, having dismounted, was received with the 


BEYOND THE PAL*E 


165 


deepest respect and solemnly conducted indoors 
by the proprietor, hat in hand. 

“What did it all mean?” Money asked him- 
self. It simply meant that the host’s father had 
been born and bred on Carrig estate, and that 
she was the daughter of the O’ Bier ne. 

“Oh, then, Miss O’Bierne, me darlin’ young 
lady,” he said, and his voice trembled, “ ’tis I 
and mine that are the proud to see ye enter my 
humble doors, and to know that ye are a raal 
successor of the great race. God be with the 
good old times when your grandfather, rest his 
soul, hunted the country, and made a show of 
the best, as you did to-day — on old Susette!” 
As he spoke he hurried her into the sitting-room, 
for a number of people were pushing and press- 
ing into the passage, and there was an immense 
crowd outside the door, all eager to get “just 
wan weenchie look at Miss O’Bierne. Just a 
sight of old Brian’s granddaughter.” No one 
took the smallest notice of the three men (not 
even of the M.F.H.), there was no crush in their 
vicinity, and they were afforded ample leisure 
in which to study the real old feudal spirit blaz- 
ing into life again. They were nobodies— not 
even regarded as customers. This girl, with 
her ancestors, her riding, and her thorough- 
bred, absorbed ^very one’s attention, not to say 
adoration. 

When the tumult had slightly subsided, the 
three insignificant strangers were suffered to 
wash their hands in the kitchen, turn about, in 
a yellow bowl; their horses were well looked 


166 


KEYOND THE PALE 


after, and presently a hasty meal was served 
in the sitting-room. A sitting-room with shiny 
black horse-hair furniture, and a remarkable 
collection of cheap and gaudy pictures. The 
repast included eggs and bacon, cold potatoes, 
hot bread, butter, tea, buttermilk, and whisky 
(the best potheen). Miss O’Bierne was ushered 
to the seat of honor at the head of the table, the 
host and his wife themselves standing behind 
her, and waiting on her with painful assiduity. 
A great expanse of tablecloth was fixed between 
this distinguished guest and the gentlemen; they 
were placed, so to speak, below the salt, and a 
wild-eyed, barefooted • servant girl fitfully, at- 
tended to their wants. 

- Money glanced frequently at Miss O’Bierne 
and smiled whenever he caught her eye. 

‘‘It is very plain,’’ he said' at last, “that cer- 
tain individuals are not considered worthy to be 
associated with a lady I know.” 

The answer, to his amazement, came in French 
— fluent French — and was to the effect that the 
positions would presently be reversed, and that 
he must say nothing to hurt the feelings of these 
poor foolish kind people. 

“What! do you speak French, Miss O’Bierne,” 
exclaimed Mr. Louth, who had been greatly 
startled, almost as much as if one of his horses 
had opened his mouth and addressed him. His 
wide, dilated eyes eagerly, nay, imperatively, 
demanded further particulars. 

“Oh, yes. It is the first language I ever 
learned,” she answered, .carelessly. “I had a 


BEYOND THE PALE 167 

French nurse when I was a small child. I be- 
lieve I spoke quite broken English.’’ 

“And you speak Irish,” said Mr. Louth. 

“Yes, but not very well.” 

“Oh, Miss O’Bierne, darlin’,” broke in Rior- 
dan, the host. “It’s like yourself not to be de- 
nying the Irish, as so many young people does 
nowadays. Sure, is it not your native tongue, 
avilish, and if young ladies of rank like your 
honor would bring it out, it would be wance 
more the fashion, and we would all be talking 
in our own language.” 

“And you are no longer in Carrig this many 
years? A suillish machree?” said his wife. 

“No, not this many years,” she answered 
gravely. 

“And may I make so bold to ask your lady- 
ship who does live there?” 

“That gentleman opposite, in the black coat,” 
she replied, “Mr. Money.” 

Mrs. Riordan turned about, and bent an ex- 
ceedingly black look upon the wearer of the 
black coat. One would almost suppose, from 
her expression, that he had sacked and pillaged 
the place, and put the residents to the sword. 

“Well, miss, if they took the grand place from 
you, there’s wan thing they could not rob ye of 
— and that is your good and honored name,” 
said Mrs. Riordan, with fierce emphasis. 

“I see the moon up now,” interrupted Mr. 
Louth, walking to the window and raising the 
blind. “Lord! what a crowd outside. One 
would think there had been a murder, or a wed- 


168 


BEYOND THE PALE 


ding, here at last. An election was nothing to 
it. Well, Riordan, we must be making a start; 
I’ll thank you to order the horses.” 

By half-past six o’clock the little party were 
ready to set off, minus the trainer, who had 
secured a bed in the village. They forced their 
way with great difficulty through the densely- 
packed mass, which actually seethed round the 
door just to see little Miss O’Bierne, and give her 
good luck,” and who, as she mounted her horse, 
indiscriminately, in English and Irish, called down 
devout blessings on her head for all the noble and 
charitable deeds of her great forefathers. 

‘‘M^y God 'bless you. Miss O’Bierne,” was 
murmured By many lips; “send you back your 
own, mavourneen aheelish.” 

“God send you a good husband,” screamed 
an aged matron. 

“May you live long, and die happy, achushla. 
Sure, aren’t we always praying for ye, an’ don’t 
we know from hear-telling as you’re wan of the 
raal sort.” An eager and enthusiastic mob, 
chiefly composed of women, pushed and pressed 
closely about her, kissing her foot, her horse’s 
neck, and the very hem of her habit ; her arm 
was stiff, her Angers were numb with shaking 
hands. From this emotional gathering she ex- 
tricated her mare and herself with difficulty. 
The overwhelming reception lasted for about 
ten minutes. But at last she was reluctantly 
suffered to depart from this scene^ of strange ex- 
citement, the crowd raising a loud, wild cheer 
as she rode off. Although the horses disliked 


BEYOND THE PALE 169 

the demonstration, their riders were much im- 
pressed, and the young English officer resolved 
to write a full, true, and particular account of 
this most uncommon experience for the hungry 
columns of his regimental paper. 

In reply to Mr. Louth’s not unnatural inquiries 
— for he was new to the country — Geraldine re- 
plied : 

‘‘This townland and village of Oola were once 
part of the O’Bierne estates. The people around 
were very poor, as you may judge by the land — 
half mountain and bog. My grandfather helped 
them as much as he could, especially in the aw- 
ful year of the famine, and they havje not for- 
gotten him yet, you see.” 

“No, indeed, and the famine — why, it was 
close on fifty years ago.” And he forthwith 
fell into a contemplative silence. 

By-and-by, from riding four abreast, Geraldine 
and young Money gradually dropped behind. 

“I suppose you’ll scarcely know me after that 
royal reception?’ ’ he said. “I thought they were 
going to crown you. They nearly dragged you 
off the horse.” 

“They meant very kindly. Are you jealous 
because you were not dragged off yours?” she 
asked, with a gay laugh. 

“No; insignificance has its compensations. I 
am most thankful that I was spared. Can you 
tell me, by the bye, what ‘a suillish machree’ 
means? I like the sound of it. I shall go about 
saying it to every one — A suillish machree, a 
suillish machree. ’ ’ 


170 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘I should not advise you to say it to too 
many,” she answered demurely, “for it means 
‘light of my heart.’ ” 

“Indeed. No; I suppose it would not do if I 
said it to three or four girls — I might get into 
trouble. If I said it to a man he might think I 
was taking a rise out of him, and knock me 
down. Mrs. Riordan never saw either of us 
before to-day, did she?” 

“No; at any rate, she never saw me.” 

“And I can swear that she never saw me 
either; yet she immediately called you the light 
of her heart, and she looked as if she would 
gladly give me a cup of cold poison. What did 
it mean?” 

“It means that you live at Carrig, and I do 
not. You must not mind her; she is an igno- 
rant, poor woman, and she does not understand. 
She thinks, because the O’Biernes lived there 
once, they should live there always. That is 
impossible. You recollect the extract you read 
me—” 

“Oh, Miss O’Bierne,” he broke in; “don’t — 
spare me; it has lain like a sin on my conscience 
ever since. Can you ever forgive me?” 

“There was nothing to forgive,” she replied 
carelessly. 

“And we are friends?” 

“At least we are friendly,” was her guarded 
reply. 

Why was there always a certain suggestion of 
distance in her attitude? However, an eighteen 
mile vide ^tete-a-tete by moonlight affords con- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


171 


spicuous opportunities for cementing a friendship 
between two young people, and, as mile after 
mile passed but too quickly, they also passed 
gradually, and imperceptibly, into ‘‘the self- 
re vreiation, exchange of contidences” stage, and 
Denis was hopeful that he had at last stormed 
and carried the outworks of Geraldine O’Bierne’s 
reserve. 

Mr. Money escorted Geraldine into the yard 
at Racehill. It was close on ten o’clock as they 
clattered under the arch. 

“What’s all this?” cried Scully, who was 
standing in the kitchen door, with a strong 
light behind his burly figure. “What sort of 
an hour do ye call this, to be coming back?” 

“We have had a wonderful run,” explained 
Money, dismounting. “We ran the stag to 
Oola in the next county. When he was taken 
there were only six up, including Miss O’Bierne 
and myself. You have reason to be proud of 
Miss O’Bierne— she got a great ovation — and 
proud of the horses — twd'from your own stable.” 

Yes; this was a feather in his cap. Casey 
should send an account to the papers. It meant 
prestige, customers, money. He cooled at once. 

“Peter, take this mare and give her a hot 
mash, with a dash of whisky. Mr. Money, sir, 
come in and have a drink. I sold ye that black 
at a ridiculous figure. He is worth every penny 
of three hundred pounds. Jerry, girl, go in. 
Casey” — accosting the jockey, who had joined 
him — “did ye hear that they had a great run to 
Oola in the next county?” 


172 


BEYOND THE PALE 


^‘Augh! these wonderful runs,” straddling 
his legs, and turning a toothpick in his mouth. 
‘‘Don’t we have them twice a week — and haven’t 
I been in dozens of them myself? How far did 
ye say?” addressing Money. 

“Nineteen miles.” 

“Ah! blatherskin,” with a rude laugh. “Ye 
may halve that.” 

But young Money was not disposed to abate 
one foot of the distance; and, with a hasty nod 
to the dealer, he gave his horse his head, and 
trotted sharply out of the yard. 


CHAPTER TWENTY 

“no BUTTER?” 

Undoubtedly Geraldine O’Bierne led a sun- 
less life, a different life to other girls of her age 
(eighteen) ; she had none of the ties in which 
affections live and grow — no father, mother, 
sister, brother; naturally reticent and self-con- 
tained, she could never lavish (supposing it 
were in demand) her love among a crowd ; but 
she w^s sincerely attached to Garry, to old 
Bridget, and the two Miss Dwyers of Creeshe, 
and returned their warm feelings with interest. 

People wondered — and, indeed, had actually 
gone so far as to ask — why these two aged 
ladies had not offered Geraldine a home on the 
death of her mother. Narcissa was her god- 
mother, they were old friends of the family, and 


BEYOND THE PALE 


173 


it was an open secret that Brian O’Bierne and 
Narcissa Dwyer had been boy and girl lovers; 
but that the susceptible Brian, when on a visit 
to Dublin, had been ensnared and caught by a 
smart society damsel, \^ho had promptly mar- 
ried him and returned to Carrig, where she had 
set up semi-regal state, started schemes of reck- 
less extravagance, and lived long enough to 
undermine the fortunes of the house, ere she 
died a comparatively young woman. It was 
whispered that after her death Brian had once 
more been a suitor for the hand of his first love, 
but that she would have none of him. How- 
ever, she had always remained his faithful 
friend and counselor; and there was another 
whisper, to the effect that the resources of 
Creeshe had been secretly taxed to prop the 
tottering credit of its neighboring estate. 

Miss Dwyer loved Brian’s granddaughter with 
a deep affection, born of sentiment, tenderness, 
and of pity for the desolate child ; and so did her 
sister Lucy — a seemingly frail, drooping old 
lady, who had never had any romance in life — 
perhaps in consequence of an uncertainty, or 
cast, in her left eye. 

After Mrs. Scully’s death, the Miss Dwyers 
had sought an interview with Matt and offered 
to adopt her orphan daughter; an offer which 
Matt had brusquely declined. Her mother had 
left him sole guardian to Geraldine, and guard- 
ian he intended to remain, until she was of full 
age. 

It afforded him a kind of morose satisfaction 


174 


BEYOND THE PALE 


to disappoint old Narcissa, whom he detested. 
Old Narcissa, who invariably addressed him as 
“Scully,” and who had cut Mrs Scully, his 
wife, dead on all occasions. “'No,” was his 
brusque answer to tlfe stern-faced inquirer. 

Jerry’s home was at Racehill with him and 
his, and he intended to carry out his wife’s 
wishes to the letter.” The full value of his 
wife’s bequest was not known to him then, but 
as time went an even he admitted to himself, 
and occasionally to Casey, that the girl Jerry 
was worth her weight in gold. 

After some rather stormy and unpleasant 
scenes, the trainer had reluctantly yielded to 
Jerry’s desire to visit the Miss Dwyers, and she 
generally contrived to spend some hours with 
them at least once a week. Creeshe was five 
miles from Racehill by road, but only two by a 
short cut through Carrig — a public footpath that 
ran by the river — and this was her invariable 
route. 

The end of January had brought with it a 
severe frost — a black frost; the ground was like 
iron, all hunting was at an end, and for once 
Geraldine enjoyed a holiday. She therefore set 
out about two o’clock one afternoon to walk to 
Creeshe. 

Creeshe was a beautiful old place, as dignified 
in its decay as its mistresses in their poverty. It 
was, alas ! true, that the best timber had been 
cut — the oaks, and walnuts, and elms — that the 
avenue was grass-grown, and deeply scored with 
the ruts from continual carting; but the gravel , 


BEYOND THE PALE 


175 


sweep was neatly raked, and the house in its 
solemn silence, its prim, chill neatness, .more 
resembled some venerated place , of worship than 
an ancient county seat. There was a great bare 
entrance hall, paneled with oak ^ it . opened en 
suite to a vast library, a ghastly white drawing- 
room, and, finally, into a small boudoir, where 
there were two lone old women, cowering to- 
gether over a scanty turf fire. 

These ladies were ^delighted to welcome Ger- 
aldine ; she was the one ray of light in their dis- 
mal existence. To Miss Narcissa she was even 
more ; she represented in her person the means 
that was to raise Carrig to its former great 
estate. 

Country people will talk — yes, certainly they 
will — and it had come to Miss Dwyer’s ears that 
young Money “was always making up to Miss 
Jerry” at the hunts; that he was often over at 
Eacehill, and that he was paying her marked 
attention. This is the palatable form in which 
the intelligence was presented to Miss Narcissa. 
The various disappointed mothers and daught- 
ers declaring elsewhere “That it was really too 
bad of Denis Money to make such an utter fool 
of the poor little trainer, and that her friends 
had better look after her, as she had a nice ex- 
ample in Tilly Scully ; indeed, for all that they 
knew, she might be just as bad. Still waters 
ran deep, and it was scarcely to be expected 
that a girl brought up in a stable-yard, among 
blacklegs and drunkards, would have any morals 
at all.” 


17(3 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Miss Narcissa, as she kissed Geraldine on both 
her cold cheeks, looked into her face from a new 
point of view. Yes, she was growing the image 
of her great-grandaunt, “Shining Sail,” a cele- 
brated beauty and toast. She had far more 
color than formerly, a deeper gentian blue in 
her eyes, but dear, dear, dear, how shabby her 
hat was, and what a thin old jacket and scraggy 
old boa! 

“What became of all your mother’s fine furs 
and fallals, child?” she asked abruptly. 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” removing hat and 
boa. “I fancy Mr. Scully gave them to Tilly, 
and that she sold them.” 

“Have you nothing?” in a tone of despair. 

“1 have the old miniatures, the emeralds, the 
watches, and seals.” 

“Pish, child, have you no lace or silks?” 

“No, none; but,” breaking into a laugh, “how 
funny of you to think of them now. Just as if I 
should ever want them. Why do you ask?” 

Why, indeed? It was not Miss Narcissa’s in- 
tention to give any information on this point, 
and she merely replied : 

“So I hear you had a wonderful run with the 
staghounds — all the way to Oola. I know the 
country well.” 

“Yes, I thought we were never going to stop. 
We were not home till ten o’clock.” 

“We? Who do. you mean by we?” she asked 
sharply. 

“Mr. Louth, an officer whose name I don’t 
know, Mr. Money and mj^self.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


177 


‘‘Gracious, child, and did they all come round 
miles out of their way to leave you at home?” 

“Oh, no. Only Mr. Denis Money.” 

“IndeedI” a little complacent cough. “And 
tell me, child, what is he like? I saw him in 
church, and we thought him rather a personable 
young man.” 

“He rides well.” 

“I hear,” piped in Lucy, “that his father is 
greatly taken with Carrig; he has only rented 
it for three years, but he is thinking of buying 
it all out from the mortgagees, and turning it 
into a family place.” 

“A -family place!” echoed Narcissa, with 
withering emphasis. “How can people of no 
family have a place? Unless, like cuckoos — in 
other birds’ nests. Lucy, I’m really surprised 
to hear ye.” 

“Well, indeed, sister, Oarrig might fall into 
worse hands. And why should you say they 
are of no family?” 

“Because, in these days, old family is quite 
out of fashion, and birth and money don’t often 
keep company.” 

“Oh, they do sometimes. Mr. Money is rich; 
he and his wife are very charitable, I know, and 
you see there are no O’Biernes left.” 

“And what do you call Geraldine here?” 

“I call her a poor, unlucky girl, and one that 
has as much chance of ever owning Carrig as — 
Paddy Mooney.” 

“That’s true for you, Lucy,” shaking her 
head in sorrowful acquiescence; yet all the time 


178 BEYOND THE PALE 

this hypocritical old lady lent an ear to Hope’s 
flattering tale. ‘‘We visited there the other day, 
Geraldine, though it went sadly against the 
grain. We went over in Mooney’s cover car. 
Thank God he was sober for once. The place 
looks very splendid, and we were shown in by 
no less than three servants; but when we did 
get up to Mrs. Money she was no great shakes 
after all.” 

“Now, Narcissa, you know you said yourself 
she was a handsome woman, and she made a lot 
of you, and was mighty sweet and pleasant,” 
protested her sister; peevishly. 

“Well, and I suppose I am bitter! I think of 
old days. I can’t stomach seeing her in your 
grandmother’s place, Jerry; ay, sitting in her 
very chair.” 

“You were none too fond of the same lady, 
Narcissa, when she did sit there.” 

“Lucy! Upon my word, I can’t think what’s 
come over you this day. I never heard such 
rubbish as you are talking. Ah! here is Susan 
with the tea,” as a tall, strong woman stalked 
in, and laid down a splendid silver tray and tea 
equipage. Her stout j rms were bare to the 
elbow; and she wore a coarse blue checked 
apron. * 

“For the Lord’s sake, Susan, will you pull 
down your sleeves and put on your cap?” said 
her mistress. 

“Sure, you are not feeling visitors on the road 
to-day, Miss Dwyer?” asked Susan, in a gruff 


voice. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


179 


“I am so, Susan. I see you-have made a few 
hot cakes. Is there no butter?” 

“Sorra a scrape.” 

‘‘Then we will just do without it. Butter is 
bad for the complexion. Geraldine, you can 
make the tea.” 

Geraldine rose at once, rearranged the cups, 
and began — her usual office — to pour out “the 
best family mixture at eighteenpence a pound.” 
But it might have been Souchong or Caravan 
tea, so much did the two old ladies enjoy it. 

“And you brought back Corinne, I see,” said 
Miss Narcissa. “I’ve got another old French 
book for you. After that, you shall have 
Thackeray’s ‘Esmond.’ ” 

“I have just read it, thank you.” 

“Read it? Who lent it to you, childie?” 

“Mr. Money.” 

“Young Mr. Money or his father?” rather 
eagerly. 

“Young Mr. Money,” and she colored. “He 
has lent me several books.” 

“Humph! I hope he makes a discreet selec- 
tion.” 

“Yes, I think he does.” 

“He is a handsome young man,” remarked 
Lucy, as she turned her cup round with a pecul- 
iar twist. Cup-tossing was her accomplishment 
and her vanity. “But by all accounts he is no 
great reader; ‘his only books are woman’s 
looks.’ 

“Now, where did you get hold of that?” in- 
quired her sister irritably. 


180 


BEYOND THE PAT.E 


‘‘From Doa tie Vance, when she was here 
yesterday.” 

“Dear, dear; none of that family ever kept a 
close mouth and a wise head.” 

“She says ‘he has a rag on every bush,’ and 
plays out of every one’s hand, and is a mighty 
favorite in London with — the married ladies,” 
pursued Miss Lucy, still peering into her teacup, 
instead of boldly facing her sister. 

“Oh, fie, Lucy, how can you listen to such 
loose talk ; and you should not be saying such 
things before the child.” 

(If the child’s face was any guide to her feel- 
ings she certainly should not.) 

“Mrs. Vance isn’t above a bit of flirtation 
herself. I — I see a ring in this cup,” she added 
suddenl}^. 

“Oh, then, I wonder how many rings that is 
you see every day?” scoffed her elder sister. 

“A ring and two coffins,” she pursued deliber- 
ately. 

“Well, those are ours, and it’s about time we 
were in them,” remarked Miss Narcissa. “I 
suppose you are hard at work, Jerry, training 
horses? Dear heart, I wish you could give it up. 
I wish you could come here, dear; but, sure, we 
have none of us a penny, and it’s hard for an 
empty sack to stand upright. How many 
horses has Scully now?” 

“Oh, a large number. I never ride less than 
six a day. As fast as some are sold others come 
on. He has done very well indeed this winter.” 

“You have done very well, you mean. Dear 


BEYOND THE PALE 


181 


me, child, how I wish you could have a little 
pleasure.” She gave a long sigh. 

‘‘And isn’t riding with a handsome young 
man a — pleasure?” demanded her sister, still 
peering into her teacrrp. 

“Bless me, Lucy! Will you hold your tongue? 
I hear the Moneys are going to have a houseful 
of company, and to give a great ball at Carrig 
before long. You’ve never been inside it to 
know it, have you, Geraldine?” 

“No, never.” 

“Would you like to go to the dance?” 

“The dance! I cannot dance.” 

“They’ll likely ask her to the servants’ ball,” 
put in Lucy, who was certainly very trying to- 
day, “along with Scully and Tilly.” 

“Now, didn’t I tell you I felt visitors on the 
road? There’s the bell,” exclaimed Miss Nar- 
cissa, rising hastily to shake the crumbs oif her 
lap into the fireplace. 

‘‘And I must be off,” said Geraldine, also ris- 
ing, and putting the tray aside and straighten- 
ing the chairs; “and indeed it will be dark be- 
fore I get home. I’ll come over again as soon 
as possible. Perhaps, if the frost holds, to- 
morrow.” And, kissing the two withered faces, 
she hurried away. 

“How stiff she is. She never will stop to 
meet a soul here. Not that she has a chance of 
meeting many,” grumbled Miss ‘Lucy; “but she 
could have known the Hares, and the Hogans, 
and the Whites.” 

“And what sort of knowing would it be?” 


IS^Z 


BEYONI> THE PALE 


asked Miss Dwyer tartly, ‘‘when they would 
look the other side of the road if they met her 
with Scully or that villain of a Tilly. Now, 
who is this, I wonder?” as sounds of echoing 
footsteps approached through the long empty 
rooms. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
“bring a substitute” 

The visitors proved to be Mr. and Mrs. 
Money. The latter rustled gracefully into the 
boudoir, wearing her most cordial manner and 
her most charming smile. “My husband,” she 
said, introducing him. “He has heard so much 
of Creeshe that he insisted on accompanying me. 
He also,” happy after- thought, “was most anx- 
ious to make your acquaintance,” and with this 
explanation she and her sables subsided into Ger- 
aldine’s seat. 

“Oh, indeed. Ichabod is what Creeshe should 
be called now, Mrs. Money,” said Narcissa. 
“Our glory, such as it was, has long departed, 
and I don’t know which is going down hill the 
faster-— ourselves or Creeshe.” 

Mrs. Money glanced round and caught sight 
of the splendid old tea service, the Sheraton 
furniture, satinwood bureaus, the fine pictures 
on the walls, quite a museum of ancient tradi- 
tions, then at the two shabby old women. She 
sniffed (ugh! how their dresses smelled of dye), 


BEYOND THE PALE 


183 


sitting over a tiny turf fire, and the whole 
atmosphere of the house was arctic. What an 
anomal}^ What a shocking contrast between 
the owners and their surroundings. They 
would be far better off in some charitable in- 
stitution — some genteel almshouse. 

“We met Miss O’Bierne on the steps,” ob- 
served Mr. Money, pleasantly. “And she and 
I had a word or two about the hunting.” 

“I did not know she knew you; I thought it 
was your son,” said the inevitable Miss Lucy. 

Mrs. Money’s thin-lipped mouth took a severe 
expression and her eyes a startled look. 

“Oh, yes, I have the pleasure of her acquaint- 
ance too. It seems quite strange to see her on 
foot.” 

“Indeed, yes, poor child. She gets enough of 
horse-riding,” continued Lucy, confidentially — 
“horse-riding and horse-breaking.” 

“She is a nice girl, and quite a lady,” con- 
tinued Mr. Money, with a faint suspicion of 
condescensiondn his manner. 

“I never heard of an O’Bieme who was not,” 
remarked Miss Dwyer, with paralyzing hauteur. 
“She is my god-daughter, perhaps you were not 
aware — ” 

“It seeins a great pity,” began Mr. Money, 
then he paused — “the county” was full of social 
quicksands. 

“I know what you are about to say,” supple- 
mented Miss Narcissa, eagerly. “It is more — 
it was a ci:ime. Her home — Geraldine’s, I mean 
— should, of course, be here; but she is under 


184 


BEYOND THE PALE 


age, and that man was left sole guardian. And 
it’s another great pity that there is no asylum 
for poor irresponsible creatures like Mrs. Scully, 
that only come into the world to do harm. Their 
mistakes don’t die with them.” 

‘‘No, indeed,” agreed her visitor, with an air 
of bland gravity, and a furtive eye upon the 
teapot. Did he but know the pitiless truth, 
this magnificent article had been drained quite 
empty — the leaves had been thrice watered. 

“We are having a ball on the 25th,” said Mrs. 
Money. “We have arranged for a special train, 
and for Liddell. The nioon, I am sorry to say, 
cannot oblige us. ” 

“Indeed, it will be like old times to hear of a 
grand ball at Carrig,” observed Miss Dwyer, 
rather wistfully. 

“I hope you will do more than hear. Miss 
Dwyer. I hope you will also see,” replied Mrs. 
Money, graciously. “I shall be very pleased if 
you and your sister will honor us with your 
company.” (Mrs. Money was anxious to secure 
these miserable old creatures in their shabby 
dresses; for the Miss Dwyers of Creeshe still 
added a luster to any entertainment.) 

“Bless me, Mrs. Money! You are vastly flat- 
tering; but I must tell you that we don’t go into 
company now — and we don’t dance.” 

Her husband’s next words nearly turned her 
into stone. 

“You don’t dance yourselves, but you can 
provide a substitute! I shall be very pleased 
indeed, and so will my wife, if you will bring 


BEYOND THE PALE 


185 


Miss O’Bierne.” Then suddeuly catching his 
wife’s expressive glance, “Who has a better 
right to be asked, and to dance in her ancestral 
halls, as they call them?” 

“I am sure you are exceedingly kind, ” began 
Miss Narcissa, with a little dry cough. “Cir- 
cumstances I need not allude to have cut her off 
from her own class; but I don’t. think myself 
that Miss O’Bierne could make a better entrance 
into society than through the doors of Carrig. 
We will chaperon her, with the greatest satis- 
faction.” 

Mrs. Money bit her lips, and pinched her 
fingers in her muff. It would be Tilly next! 
With a hunting husband and son, in some ways 
the poor woman was powerless. She felt like a 
hen when her ducklings have left her on the 
edge of a pond. Hunting afforded them dan- 
gerous opportunities of making undesirable ac- 
quaintances. However, when her husband 
wore that expression there was nothing for it 
but submission — temporary, of course. 

“I’m sure I shall be most happy,” she mur- 
mured, “and I shall put her name on your card 
of invitation.” 

“If it would make no difference, a card to 
herself would be better,” said Miss Narcissa, 
ceremoniously. 

Mrs. Money bowed her head, and mentally 
shuddered. The card would be put in a post of 
honor at Racehill, and thumbed by every black- 
leg in the province. 

“I’ll see to that,” cried Mr. Money, who did 


186 


BEYOND THE PALE 


nothing by halves. write it with my own 

hand, and I’ll engage Miss O’Bierne for a 
dance.” 

“She does not dance except square dances,” 
rejoined Miss Narcissa. “But I’m confident 
she will be happy to be your partner in a qua- 
drille.” 

“I’m surprised that she can dance at all,” 
remarked Mrs. Money, very sourly. 

“Oh, are you? She was at a first-rate school 
until she was twelve, and is, I daresay, a great 
deal betjter educated than half the people who 
look upon her as an ignoramus. She is a good 
French scholar, and has just finished reading 
‘Corinne.’ I am sorry to say that our literature 
is as old-fashioned as ourselves; but I under- 
stand that your son has obligingly supplied her 
with some recent publications.” 

“Oh, really,” with frigid dignity. “I was 
not aware — ” Mrs. Money looked hard at her 
husband, and then remarked, “My dear, I am 
afraid we must not keep the horses any longer 
in that biting wind. Duchess has got a cough,” 
and, rising, and tendering two very rigid fingers 
to each shabby old lady, Mrs. Money placed her 
hands back in her muflf and rustled majestically 
away. 

“I think,” she said as they drove off and she 
planted her feet on the foot- warmer, “that it 
was the greatest possible mistake to ask that 
girl. ’ ’ 

“Why?” he snapped. 

“You don’t know what it may lead to«” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


187 


“If you are thinking of Denis, his attentions 
are inv'ariably platonic. One girl is the same to 
him as another. You need not be afraid that 
he is going to what is called ‘fall in love.’ ” 

“Well, it is a fatal mistake for us newcomers 
to endeavor to thrust the girl down the throat of 
the county. You may be sure they have their 
own reasons for ostracizing her.” 

“Which are no reasons at all.” 

“And simply because she rides well, and flat- 
ters you out hunting, and gave you a brush, you 
are her champion. All men are alike ; and there’s 
no fool like an old one.” 

(By which remarks it will be seen that Mrs. 
Money was not always quite as sweet as she 
looked.) 

“I know”— repenting a little, as there ensued 
a somewhat constrained silence — “that I am 
rather cross.” 

“Yes, I think we will agree about that,” re- 
joined Mr. Money, with considerable emphasis. 

“After all, we agree about most things,” she 
said, and her voice was actually humble and 
conciliatory. 

At this moment they passed Racehill gate. 
She gave a violent start, and exclaimed, “Tony, 
did you see them?” 

“No; whom do you mean?” 

“Why, Denis and that girl. They were stand- 
ing hand in hand;” and she gave a little ex- 
clamation of disgust. 

“But I thought he had gone to tea at Wilde 
Park?” 


188 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘So did I.” A long, expressive silence, and 
then Mrs. Money said, “Tony, you would not 
approve of that. You know what I mean.” 

“You mean Miss O’Bierne. You need not 
alarm yourself, my dear. There is nothing in 
it.” 

“Maybe so; but if there should be, Tony, I 
want you to promise me one thing,” and she 
laid her hand coaxingly on his. 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“That you will never give your consent.” 

“Why not? Personally, I like her.” 

“Just because you think her handsome.” 

“She is a lady,” he urged; “a lady born and 
bred.” 

“A lady, brought up and educated by Scully, 
the horse-dealer?” 

“No, more likely by those Miss Dwyers.” 

“Nonsense. Those two poor, half -starved old 
mummies see very little of Jerry O’Bierne. 
Since her childhood she has been living in a 
most degraded and immoral atmosphere.” 

“It does not follow that she is degraded. On 
the contrary, the life she has led has had a very 
bracing effect on her character, and she is of 
good birth— of very old family.” 

“Old family!” and she smiled a little com- 
miserating smile. “An old family that has 
gone under does not count. If three genera- 
tions make a gentleman or a lady, one genera- 
tion can unmake them. Bad up-bringing, 
custom, example, squalor, poverty soon choke 
all fine instincts.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


1S9 


“I don’t agree with you at all,” he answered, 
doggedly. 

“Then, my dear Tony, we must agree to 
differ. But it is a pity we should quarrel over 
Jerry O’Bierne, the horse-breaker, or differ on a 
point on which we are really most warmly 
agreed.” 

“What is that— for I should be glad to know 
it?’” 

“The best interests,^ the true happiness of 
Denis,” holding out her muff with a dramatic 
gesture. 

“Denis is very capable of taking care of his 
own interests and choosing his personal idea of 
happiness.” 

“I do not agree with you.” 

“I should be surprised if you did. You can- 
not agree with me on any single subject to-day.” 

“I am as fond of Denis as if he was my own 
son; you know that,” she urged, with tears in 
her voice. “All my aspirations and ambitions 
are entirely for him. I have left him every 
penny I possess. I am longing to see him mar- 
ried.” 

“And I am not. Let the poor fellow enjoy 
his liberty.” 

“I want him to give me a daughter that will 
be congenial to me — a real daughter, whom I 
can love. She may be poor — penniless, for that 
matter — but I could never tolerate an insignifi- 
cant young person, with infamous connections, 
horsey proclivities, who does not even know 
how to get out of a carriage.” 


190 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Here Mrs. Money descended from her own 
conveyance with graceful indignation, ascended 
the steps, and entered the door of Carrig, tak- 
ing with her that important weapon known as 
the last word.’’ 


END OF PART ONE 



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Beyond the Pale 


A NOVEL 



B. M. CROKER 


Author of Proper Pride,^^ Pretty Miss NeDilley^^ '“A 
Bird of Passagcy^^ Diana' Bar rtngum,^^ Two Mas- 
ter s^'^ “A Family Likeness,^ ^ “A Third Per son, 

^*Mr. Jervis,’^ Village Tales and Jungle 
Tragedies, Interference,^^ Lady 
Hilda, Married or Single, etc. 



IN TWO PARTS— PART TWO 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1896, by 
Peter Fenklox Collier 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington 



BEYOND THE PALE 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

MISS b’BIERNE MEETS A HARE 

The short cut from Creeshe to Racehill ran 
by the local river. It was an old private road, 
made in former days, when the families of 
Creeshe, Carrig, and Racehill were not merely 
on visiting terms, but were connected by ties 
of blood and friendship. The people for whose 
benefit the Lovers’ Walk had been laid out, and 
who often paced it, were almost all dead. How- 
ever, the path was a great convenience to the 
public during the daytime, but at night a locked 
gate closed the thoroughfare. 

It was a hard frost, and Denis Money had 
taken the river path en route to tea with the 
sprightly Mrs. Vance. As he walked, he pres- 
ently became aware of voices a little way ahead 
of him — voices that sounded in the sharp, clear 
air like those of two people who were quarrel- 
ing. The man’s voice said : 

“You will not stir out of this, you proud little 
devil, till you give me a kiss. I’ve come to meet 
you on purpose, so you need not try to bolt.” 

( 191 ) 


192 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Then a girl’s answer, which he could not catch. 

Next a sound of scuffling, and a stifled scream 
(the affection was undoubtedly all on one side), 
and Money began to run. Just round a bend, 
by an old thatched summer house, he came in 
sight of Miss O’Bierne, struggling in the arms 
of Casey Walshe. 

In half a second he tore up the steps, seized 
Casey by the collar, and shook him like a rat. 

‘‘Kill him!” cried the girl, vvith blazing eyes, 
as she stamped her foot and gasped for breath, 
evidently beside herself with fury. Casey, 
meanwhile, had wrenched himself out of his 
coat and stood free as air. It was impossi- 
" ble, however, to maintain a dignified attitude, 
when conscious of a flannel shirt, a pair of dirty 
linen cuffs, and a dickey. 

“What the hell brings you here, I’d like to 
know,” he screamed, “interfering between me 
and my intended ! Keep your own side of the 
course, or you’ll get a nasty cropper.” 

“Your intended,” echoed Denis, with a white, 
incredulous face. 

“Oh, don’t believe him!” broke in the girl, 
passionately. “He is nothing, he is detestable to 
me, I hate him!” leaning her hands on the table 
and turning on Casey Walshe a look of pale re- 
pulsion and disdain. 

“It’s all put on for your benefit,” sneered 
Casey. “A little bit of hedging, but I’m the 
favorite. I’ve the race and a stone in hand.” 

“You know that I abhor you,” she said, con- 
fronting him fiercely. “You persecute me, you 


BEYOND THE PALE 


193 


make my life a burden to me, you complain of 
me to Mr. Scully, and tell him horrible false- 
hoods; you lay in wait for me here to-day, think- 
ing I was sure to be defenseless and alone. Oh ! 
you craven! — who only venture to frighten girls 
— who dare not mount a strange horse.. You 
think people do not see through your excuses ol* 
bad health. They all know as well as I do that 
you are a miserable, trembling, abject coward!’’ 

Before Money could interfere, Casey had 
rushed at the girl in a transport of murder- 
ous fury and struck her on the mouth. For 
this enormity the other man seized upon him, 
and caned him soundly over head and shoul- 
ders, Casey screaming between each cut, in a 
piercing falsetto, “I’ll have the law! I’ll sum- 
mons you! I’ll bring you into court!” 

Money then flung him scornfully down the 
steps, and said, as he threw his coat after him, 
“Let that be a lesson to you not to strike a wo- 
man, you brute. And if you ever raise your 
hand to Miss O’Bierne again, as far as I’m con- 
cerned, it will not be a case for the court, but 
for the coroner!” Now that he was roused the 
white fierce passion of this young Englishman far 
exceeded that of the two Celts. His face was 
livid, his eyes blazed — his voice shook. Gay, 
dehonnaire Denis was a raging human animal. 
During this scene (which had taken place in the 
space of two minutes), Geraldine O’Bierne had 
leaned against the wall— shivering, speechless, 
and pitiless. 

Casey picked himself up very slowly, also his 


194 


BEYOND THE PALE 


coat, which he drew on cautiously, surveying 
the pair as he did so with a demoniacal expres- 
sion upon his evdhcountenance. He stood and 
contemplated them for several seconds with the 
sullen ness of irresolute ferocity, and then with- 
out one word — silence occasionally conveys a 
more terrible threat than speech — turned, hob- 
bled stiffly away, and was presently out of sight. 

‘‘Your mouth is bleeding. He has cut your 
lip rather badly,” said Money, with anxious so- 
licitude. 

“Oh, that is nothing,” impatiently, and stanch- 
ing it with her handkerchief. 

“Well, I think it is a great deal,” rejoined her 
champion, (Quickly. “I’m sorry I let him off so 
cheaply. However, I don’t fancy he will trouble 
you again.” 

“He may not trouble me immediately,” she 
answered, looking steadily at Denis. “But he 
will certainly trouble me again.” 

“Why?” he asked, sharply. 

“Because he is my evil genius. In some mys- 
terious way he has Mr. Scully in his power, and 
I” — and in her eyes there was an expression of 
stern inarticulate despair — “am in Mr. Scully’s 
power.” 

“What do you mean? Do you mind telling 
me?” 

“You know he is my stepfather—my guardian. 
He has cut me off from all friends. I have no 
relations — not one — no money. I am his slave, 
and he is the slave of Casey Walshe. Casey 
hates me, and yet wants to marry me.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


195 


“To marry you!” he repeated, fiercely. 

“Yes. I beliesre he has some idea of starting 
a horse-dealing business like Mr. Scully. I would 
be useful, and he knows that Garry would go 
wherever I went, and he is worth a fortune. 
But, oh, the thought of Casey Walshe, the sight 
of him, even the sound of his voice in the dis- 
tance, makes me shudder,” and as she spoke her 
trembling hands were pressed hard upon the 
table. 

It was perfectly true that Casey wished to 
marry the little riding-girl, although his feel- 
ings embodied an extraordinary mixture of ad- 
miration and detestation. He secretly admired 
her blue blood, her cool self-possession; he ap- 
preciated with the eye of a connoisseur her fine 
horsemanship; he envied her her youth and her 
iron nerve. On the other hand, he loathed her 
haughty airs, her jeers, her stinging tongue, 
and for the fact that she alone knew his secret, 
he abhorred and feared her. Once his wife, her 
mouth would be shut and she would fear him. 
He had hitherto paid his court in a manner pe- 
culiar to himself ; it consisted of jokes, practical 
and otherwise, rude personal remarks, blunt 
criticisms of her appearance. Once he had of- 
fered her a dog, and, seeing that she hesitated 
to accept it, had killed it before her eyes. Of 
all his ill deeds that was the blackest. Geraldine 
loved dogs, and her heart had gone out to the 
trembling little creature, with its eloquent eyes 
looking so wistfully into hers; but a gift from 
Casey — how could she accept it? After this 


196 


BEYOND THE PALE 


episode she had not opened her lips to him for 
many weeks. How an acute and wary man 
like Casey Walshe could for a moment suppose 
that he had the smallest hope of being accepted 
by the young lady was indeed a marvel. But 
he had the whole of Scully’s influence— this was 
a considerable item ; he had large savings, well- 
invested spoil. He considered himself good-look- 
ing, young (forty), and when he flguratively sur- 
veyed the neighborhood, and noted the lack of 
men, -the multitude of single women, the ex- 
traordinary suitors which some of these spin- 
sters accepted, his hopes were high. He had 
taken an extra glass of whisky to steady his 
nerves, and followed Geraldine in order to press 
his suit. They had met in front ot* the old sum- 
mer-house, and had an immediate difference of 
opinion. One sharp word led to another. Casey 
had lost his self-control, his temper, his head, 
and had received in exchange a very painful 
castigation from an unexpectedly strong-armed 
young man. As Casey slunk home he paused 
once, shook his flst in the air, and said to a 
passing crow : 

‘ ‘ I’ll pay out that black-tongued little cat. I’ll 
make them both rue the day they were ever born. 
Yes, if I have to swing for it.” 

He left Racehill early the next morning, and, 
although he was absent for a whole week, no 
one missed him in the least — no, not even Matt 
Scully. 

In the meanwhile Money remained with Miss 
O’Bierne, and brought water from the river in 


BEYOND- THE PALE 


197 


his hands, in order that she might bathe her lip. 
She was very white, trembling, and excited as 
she said : 

‘‘Do you know that I’ve always had a curious 
feeling that I will be the death of Casey Walshe, 
or he will be the death of me ; and I now wish, 
extraordinary as it sounds, that you had not 
beaten him.” 

“And I wish he had not struck you,” retorted 
her companion. 

“I provoked him. I was mad with rage. 
Now I have cooled, I feel — and I know you will 
think me a superstitious idiot — that this adven- 
ture bodes misfortune to both you and me — to 
me, at any rate. To-day I met a hare on the 
path running straight toward me,” and she 
looked at him with scared eyes. 

“Oh, Miss O’Bierne! come, come. This is 
the end of the nineteenth century.” 

“If it was the end of the twenty-ninth cent- 
ury, to meet a hare is a certain sign of sorrow 
to an O’Bierne.” 

“And do you really believe in those sort of 
things?” he asked, gazing at her with an air 
of critical wonder. 

“In some we all do. Every old Irish family 
has its warning,” she answered, gravely. 

“And a hare is yours?” 

“No; not the warning for death, only trouble. 
The other is the driving up to Carrig of a coach 
and four horses with black plumes on their heads. 
It always appears previous to the death of an 
O’Bierne. It was seen the night before my 


198 


BEYOND THE PALE 


father was killed. It has only to call once 
more.” 

‘‘Once more?” he repeated. 

“Yes,” rising as she spoke and turning on 
him a pale, wistful face; “for me,” and, twist- 
ing her scraggy boa tightly round her neck, she 
ran down the steps. 

But in an instant he was beside her, saying 
in a pleasant, but peremptory tone, “You don’t 
suppose that I am going to allow you to walk 
home alone?” 

“But really I am not a bit afraid,” she por- 
tested. “I come by this path quite late in the 
evening, and I thought you were going to tea 
with Mrs. Vance.” 

“That is a pleasure which may be deferred.” 

“For what you consider to be a duty?” and 
she threw back her head, and confronted him 
haughtily. 

“No,” he answered, in a lower tone and with 
unexpected humility, “a privilege.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

GAKRY SPEAKS PLAINLY 

The frost still “held” — to quote the local 
term — the whole country in a strong, relentless 
grip. Hockey parties, skating, curling, dancing, 
brought the neighborhood together, and the cli- 
max of all entertainments', the ball at Carrig, 
was to take place within a week. 

Denis Money had been dining with the Royal 


BEYOND THE PALE 


199 


Skirmishers at their barracks in Ballybawl, and 
at twelve o’clock he started off to walk home. 
The road was as dry as the proverbial bone, and 
as hard as iron, the -moon shining with a sort 
of grim, white stare. The way was long and 
undeniably lonely. 

Denis glanced instinctively at the high, hairy- 
looking hedges on either hand, and endeavored 
to recall tales of shootings and sudden death; 
iiot that he was a coward, nor did he accelerate 
his pace by one inch. After all, the yearly sta- 
tistics of murders were fa» higher in England; 
but then England was much more densely pop- 
ulated. What was that sound? — a footstep — a 
steady and determined footstep coming up be- 
hind him. Should he allow it to pass, or would 
he take chance of its company? The step came 
nearer — nearer, and then a voice called out : 

‘‘By jigs and reels, it’s Mr. Money. I beg 
your pardon, sir ; I’m Garry, the groom. Would 
you kindly oblige me with a match?’’ 

“Here you are,” now striking one, which 
exhibited by a timid flicker Garry’s shrewd, 
middle-aged countenance, 

“Going home, Garry, I suppose?” 

“Yes, your honor,” as they fell into step. 

“^Walking must come strange to you?” 

“Well, an’ it do; but owing to this shocking 
hard frost Miss O’Bierne and I are getting a 
grand holiday. I hope them horses are giving 
your honor satisfaction — them last ye bought?” 

“Yes, they carry me well. That was a great 
run we had with the stag.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 

‘‘By jigs and reels, it was — too great for most 
of us.” 

“Miss O’Bierne went well.” 

“She did.” A pause, and then he cleared his 
throat and said abruptly: 

“See here now, Mr. Money, I’ll be glad of a 
couple of words with you — man to man, not 
groom to gentleman.” 

“Yes, certainly; say on whatever you want to 
say.” (It was, no doubt, some thievery about 
the horses.) 

“I’ve known ye now nigh three months, 
hunting,” continued the other, “hunting and 
walking, and going about — a nice, dacent, well- 
living boy, with no more pride about you than 
an ass — may I. spake?” 

“Yes, of course you may.” 

“It’s about the little girl above .... Miss 
O’Bierne,” and his voice actually trembled. 
“Ye see yourself how she’s situated. Her 
mother, God help her! was a born fool. I 
say no more nor that — and left her in the hands 
of that rogue. Matt Scully — that wouldn’t have 
been axed to take a sate in the servants’ hall at 
Carrig. And he has all authority over her till 
her twenty-first birthday. No one, av coorse, 

will look at the same side of the road wid her — 

•• 

and she Miss O’Bierne of Carrig. And she has 
not a mortal soul in this wide world to spake up 
for her, unless myself. ’Tis truth I’m telling 
ye. Her father and me was foster brothers, 
and me and mine was reared on Carrig, for 
hundreds of years. I was a gorsoon there my- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


201 


self. It was me as helped to carry home Mr. 
Gerald — God rest his soul! — ay, and to put him 
in his coffin; and by jigs and reels” — here his 
voice became loud ^nd hoarse — “I stand between 
his child and harm.” 

“Good Lord! You don’t suppose that I am 
likely to harm her?” exclaimed the young man, 
coming to a dead stop. 

“No — no — no,” waving his hand impatiently. 
“I’ve seen many come with their chaff and their 
jokes, and their Jerry this and that — making her 
out something between a servant-girl and a 
steeplechase jock. Now you are the only one 
that ever treated her like a lady. I noticed it 
the very first day when you picked up her brooch 
in the yard. I’ve seen ye riding up to her be- 
fore the whole world at the hunt, and when all 
the rest gives her the go-by, and you taking off 
your hat as if she was a duchess.” 

“And why not?” 

“Av coorse, I know,” swallowing a lump in 
his throat, “there’s a terrible feeling against all 
as come out of Racehill, what with Spully him- 
self, and Tilly streelin’ round, a bad lot, egg 
and bird — oh, a villain of a girl! We are low 
enough without having Casey Walshe tacked 
on to us, and people misdoubts but we are all 
tarred with the same brush — which God forbid! 
And He knows that if ever there was a pure and 
honorable soul in this wide world it lives in the 
body of the last of the O’Bierne young ladies.” 

“I am certain of that, Garry,” said Money. 
“I can see that for myself.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


20 ;> 


‘‘So much the- better, sir,” with emphasiso 
“Well, now, you’ve given her books as she sets 
great store by — ye ride with her by the mile — ye 
trate her as she ought to be trated, with honor 
and respect, and you’ve half killed Casey Walshe 
on her account. All these things is not thrown 
away on a young girl, and my last word to you 
is this. If ye mane nothing, don’t let the child 
get fond of you.” 

Money was totally unprepared for this sum- 
ming up. The last thing in the world he would 
have expected was to have his “intentions” called 
in question by this elderly Irish groom. He was 
so astonished, so momentarily confused, that for 
fully the length of fifty yards’ brisk walking he 
made no answer, and Garry again began in a 
sharper key. 

“Maybe you’ ve traveled too far, and are too 
experienced in every way, for an ignorant man 
like me to have any chance wdth— but at laste I 
have made myself plain.” 

“Yes, Garry, you have, and I’ll be plain with 
you.” (JSTpvertheless, he was not going to reveal 
his intentions.) “I take what you say exactly 
as it is meant. I mean nothing but goodwill 
and friendship with regard to Miss O’Bierne. I 
admire her for her spirit, her good breeding, her 
pluck. I look upon her as a mere child.” 

“Then kape looking on her as a mere child, 
Mr. Money,” interrupted Garry, with consider- 
able vehemence. “You understand me, and I 
understand you.” 

“There is just one thing that I do not under- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


203 


stand, Garry, and that is, how you came to know 
that I horsewhipped Casey Walshe.- Is it pos- 
sible that he told you?” 

“Not he, beyond sending for a lotion and 
plaster. But everything is known here in these 
parts; the very trees have ears.’^ 

‘ ‘ Y es — bn t it was tongue that told you. Surely 
not Miss O’Bierne?” 

“No. It shows ye little know her, to ask. It 
was Miss O’Bierne’s shadow. You may have 
heard of Paddy Pinafore?” 

“I have seen him.” 

“ He has a sort of madness; the head of him 
is not right. He seen ye — he couldn’t kape the 
news to himself, no how. He was that proud 
of the lathering ye gave Casey. He hates Casey 
like the devil, for he laughs at him, and calls 
him names, and rides off beyond the rache of a 
clip of a stone, and since he hanged a dog on 
him Paddy would do anything to him, and any- 
thing for you after the other day’s work. But 
wan word, sorr. Beware of Casey — a peevish, 
malicious, cunning weasel. He will do ye a 
dirty turn if he can.” 

. “If he can,” derisively. “I daresay.” 

“Well, now, sorr, ye are warned in two ways, 
and I’ll be all the better for putting that other 
little matter ye know of off me mind. Here is 
the white gate, and I’ll wish you good- night.” 

“Good-night, Garry,” was the cheery answer. 
And Denis Money continued his walk. (He had 
still two miles further to go.) As he tramped 
along in utter solitude, he kept repeating over 


204 


BEYOND THE PALE 


and over to himself~‘‘If ye mane nothing, don’t 
let the child get fond of you.” 

This latter part of Garry’s injunction was ri- 
diculously superfluous. The child was supremely 
indifferent to him— she meant nothing — she was 
absolutely unique in his experience of women. 
He. had read somewhere that “there are no peo- 
ple whose characters are so anomalous as those 
of the Irish, and consequently difficult to under- 
stand.” She was an instance in point. Gold as 
an icicle, fiery as a flame, daring as a devil, shy 
as a novice, stately as a queen. 

“If you mean nothing, don’t let the child get 
fond of you.” Alas! the boot was on the other 
boot ; he was fond of the child ; he had no con- 
cealments from himself. He was very fond of 
the child, and she meant nothing. 

She never gave him the slightest chance of 
explaining his feelings, or discovering hers. 
“Don’t let the child get fond of you” — indeed! 
he exclaimed half aloud, as he let himself into 
the hall at Carrig, and looked up at one of her 
bearded ancestors, “I only wish she was!” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 

AN INVITATION 

“What’s this big square envelope, Jerry?” 
demanded Miss Scully, who, for reasons of her 
own, always unlocked and emptied the post-bag. 
“It’s too late fora Christmas card; not that you 
were troubled with many.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


205 


After a moment’s silence, during which Jerry 
opened the letter and examined its contents, she 
replied, in a tone of undisguised amazement: 

“It’s a card of invitation.” 

Tilly stared at her incredulously over the big 
Britannia metal teapot. 

Yes, Jerry had evidently received something 
out of the common, for the color had mounted 
to her face. “Give it here,” said Miss Scully, 
snatching it as she spoke. Her eyes became 
round and fixed as she read : 

“Mr. and Mrs. Money 
. Request the Honor of 
Miss O’Bierne’s company 
At Carrig, on the 25th inst., at 10 o’clock. 

Dancing. R.S.V.P.” 

She read it over three times. Yes, she might 
believe tbe evidence of her own eyes. Those 
eyes fiashed in a face that was now crimson, 
the result of the tumultuous awakening of fury, 
disappointment, jealousy, envy, and spite. 

“Well, upon my word!” she gasped at last. 
Then turned it over. “What next? Governor,” 
with a hysterical laugh, “did you see this?” and 
she threw the card across at him, narrowly miss- 
ing a dish of eggs and bacon. 

“What is it?” he asked crossly. “Not an 
offer of marriage for you, is it, eh?” 

“No, but an invitation to a ball at Carrig for 
Jerry,” in a^choked voice. 

“So I see.’*’ 

“But there is no mention of you or me.” 


206 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘No. I’d look well at a ball now, wouldn’t I?” 

“I think they might hav^e had the manners 
to ask us. Anyhow, paid the compliment. Of 
course, Jerry can’t go.” ' 

“No?” rather doubtfully. “I can’t think 
what put it into their heads to ask you,” and 
he looked over his glasses at his step-daughter. 

“His head, you mean. Jerry doesn’t know 
Mr. and Mrs. Money no more than I do. 
What’s your other letter, Jerry? Show it here,” 
stretching out her hand. 

Geraldine reluctantly tendered a note, written 
in a thin, pointed hand in faded brown ink : 

‘^Creeshe, Monday. 

“My dear Geraldine — This post will proba- 
bly deliver to you a card of invitation to a dance 
at Carrig. Mr. and Mrs. Money, who were call- 
ing here on Thursday,* mentioned that they 
hoped you would accompany us on the occa- 
sion, but said they would send you a formal 
card. 

“Present my compliments to Mr. Scully” (this 
message had cost the old lady two hoars’ vio- 
lent struggle with her pride, but she was pre- 
pared to descend to any depths to carry out her 
aims), “and say that I shall feel obliged if he 
will permit you to come to us from the 24th to 
the 27th, and that I will undertake your dress 
for the occasion. Let me have an answer at 
once. Perhaps you could bring it in person. 

“I am, your attached godmother, 

“Narcissa Dwyer.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


207 


‘^Mighty polite, indeed,” scoffed Tilly, pass- 
ing it on with a gesture of scorn. 

“Well, then, it is mighty polite,” echoed 
Scully. “Tbe old lady has got down off her 
high horse for once. She finds there’s no use 
in trying to ride rough-shod over Matt Scully; 
but if you take him the right way — ” 

“Why, you don’t mean to say that you will 
let her go?” interrupted Tilly, her face scarlet. 
“Let her go, and rub skirts with quality, that 
hav^e been snubbing us for years?” 

“I must consider it. Now, don’t you be get- 
ting into one of your tantrums;” and as he 
opened another of his own letters a nice long 
slip of green and white paper fluttered out. It 
was a check for one hundred and twenty pounds. 

He had picked up the animal at the end of 
last season. Jerry had made him. He cast a 
long, scrutinizing glance at her. 

“Would you like to go to the flare-up, Jerry?” 

“If you mean the ball, I would.” 

The Moneys were capital customers. Eleven 
hundred and twenty pounds had they paid him, 
and he was secretly pleased that Jerry should 
get into society. It would be all the better for 
business. Moreover, the ball would not cost 
him anything. 

“Well, then, I’ll give you leave. You can have 
the brown mare frosted, and ride over to Creeshe, 
and present my compliments to Miss Dwyer, and 
say that you accept, with much delight.” 

“Thank you,” coloring with surprise and de- 
light. 


208 


BEYOND THE PALE 


And a nice figure you’ll be, dressed by them 
old Dwyers, that haven’t had a new tack this 
ten years,” put in Tilly, hysterically. ^‘An’ 
considering that you don’t know Mrs. Money, 
I’m sure old Narcissa askod for the card for you. 
If it were me, I’d have too much pride to go.” 

. Geraldine looked at her meditatively. It was 
the first time she had ever heard of Tilly’s pride. 

“Now, there’s not a bit of good in putting on 
the grand air with me,” cried Miss Scully, furi- 
ously. 

“I’m quite sure Miss Dwyer did not ask for 
an invitation for me. If she did, I should not 
dream of going.” 

“Then I don’t know who else but the Dwyers 
would put you into their head,” glaring at her 
with hungry malice. 

“You forget theyoung man, Tilly,” suggested 
Scully facetiously. “I was thinking myself he 
has rather a notion of our Jerry.” 

This was too much for “our Jerry.” She 
violently pushed back her chair, and rose from 
the table. 

“Here, here, take your precious invitation 
with you!” screamed Tilly; “you’d better have 
it framed.” 

“Begob, she’s a- queer , creature,” exclaimed 
the trainer, as she left the room. 

“She’s getting mighty uppish, and if you let 
her go to this dance, governor, there will be no 
standing her at all — and so I warn you.” 

“Come, now, Tilly, you know you’d go hop- 
ping if you were asked, yourself.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


209 


I,” with a toss of her head. ‘‘I’m none 
of your toadies and dirt-eaters; I’ve far too 
much self-respect. No purse-proud minion shall 
ever trample on me.” (Quoting the heroine of 
her last novelette, to whom she secretly, believed 
she bore a strong resemblance.) 

“Jerry has worked very hard this winter.” 

“At her own pleasure,” snapped Tilly. 

“No, there’s not much pleasure in exercising a 
raw three-year-old filly, on a bitter winter morn- 
ing, and you lying till twelve o’clock snug in 
your warm bed. Give the devil his due. Jerry 
stands a lot of knocking about, and says nothing. ” 

Tilly thrust away her plate, put her elbows 
on the table; she was about to descend into 
the arena of high words. 

“Now, look here,” blustered Scully, “you 
need not barge, and you needn’t try to get 
round me. You shall have your bit of fun, but 
Jerry shall go to this ball.” 

“And it will be poor enough fun for her. Not 
a soul will speak to her. Isn’t every one talking 
of her and youn^ Money?” cried Tilly, whose 
fury was so boundless that she had invented 
this fiction on ^he spot. 

“Talking of her and young Money, are they?” 
cried Scully, and his hand seemed instinctively 
to seek his dog whip. “They’d better not let 
me hear them.” 

“Of course you’re the last to hear any scandal 
about thi& place,” which was a merciful fact, as 
far as she was concerned ; but such was her 
blind rage she was reckless. 


210 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Finding words were unavailing, Miss SculFy 
had recourse to tears; but even these were 
wasted in vain — in yain she asked, in a lachry- 
mose whimper, why her dear uncle was so un- 
kind to her? At the end of a quarter of an 
hour’s bemoaning, and coaxing, punctuated 
with kisses and sobs, Tilly had been told to 
“order herself a sealskin cape”; but, for once, 
she could not shake her uncle’s stubborn resolve, 
nor induce him to recall his promise to Jerry. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 

A DRESS REHEARSAL AND A RIDDLE 

Tilly, foiled and furious, stood in the landing 
window and watched Jerry ride quickly out of 
the yard on a very excited-looking brown hunt- 
er. Involuntarily, she shook her fist. Jerry 
was cutting her out with Uncle Matt, cutting 
her out with young Money, and actually getting 
into county society! Altogether, it was more 
than she could endure; and, turning about, she 
hastily descended into the drawing-room, and, 
ringing the bell, was presently sobbing out all 
her sorrows and grievances upon the capacious 
and sympathetic shoulder of fat Hannah. 

Miss Narcissa was radiant when she saw 
Geraldine enter the boudoir. “Ah, my dear,” 
she cried, “I see you are coming to the ball; 


BEYOND THE PALE 


211 


yoiir face is enough. Well, Scully is not so 
bad as I thought him, and I hadn’t to degrade 
myself for nothing after all.” 

“I’m half afraid that Tilly may yet talk him 
over. She doesn’t wish me to go,” replied 
Geraldine, as she removed her hat and gloves. 

“No, I suppose not. She wants to go herself, 
and” (under her breath) “well, even a kitchen- 
maid must have a character. Whatever hap* 
pens, I won’t allow Matt Scully to withdraw 
his consent, though I do wish I had it in 
writing. Now, about your dress, my heart.” 

“Yes, indeed. What am I to wear?” and she 
looked from one to the other of the old ladies. 
“I have two pounds fifteen.” 

“Come upstairs,” replied Miss Lucy, “and 
you shall see what we think would be suitable. 
The two pounds fifteen will do for shoes and 
gloves.” It was as extraordinary to hear penni- 
less Miss Lucy talking thus extravagantly as it 
was to realize that she herself was going to the 
great ball at Carrig. In a kind of day-dream 
she followed the two frail old figures up the 
great, shallow staircase, and into the best spare 
room. The house was exquisitely clean, but 
smelled of mould and dry rot. How many years 
had elapsed since the best spare room had en- 
joyed a fire? Miss Narcissa briskly unlocked an 
ancient wardrobe, and, after a moment’s search, 
brought out a long parcel, wrapped in blue 
calico. 

“This,” clearing her throat and looking sig- 
nificantly at Lucy, “is a piece of satin that I 


BEYOND THE PALE 


212 

happen to have by me,” and she carried it over 
to the window, and unfolded it with almost 
reverential care. ^‘It was bought — ahem — it 
was bought for — a — particular occasion.” (It 
was really her own wedding dress, purchased 
for her marriage to this very girl’s perfidious 
grandfather.) 

“A particular occasion,” echoed Lucy, with 
a nod that told half the story to Geraldine. 

‘‘And,” added her sister very hastily, “never 
happened to be required. But it’s beautiful 
stuff, you see,” holding it between her wasted 
fingers; “just feel that for thickness and qual- 
ity, my dear.” 

Yes, indeed, it could almost stand alone. The 
color was, however, no longer white, but pale 
cream. 

“It will be sixty years old next May.’' (May 
was ever an unlucky month for weddings.) 
“And beautiful still, you see.” 

“Beautiful indeed,” agreed the girl, emphatic- 
ally. 

“It’s for you, my heart,” continued Miss 
Narcissa, with a little tremor in her voice. “I’m 
glad some one will wear it at last. It has 
waited, you see, half a century to be made up.” 

“Oh, Miss Narcissa, you are far too kind,” said 
Geraldine, kissing her shriveled cheek with her 
warm, young lips. “It’s a great deal too grand 
for me.” 

“Not a bit, and it will be a great pleasure to 
me to see you in it, my love.” 

“But I really don’t like to take it.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


213 


‘‘Why not? I’m your godmother, am I not? 
Almost the same as your grandmother, and who 
has a better right to it? Am I ever likely to 
want a white satin gown?” she demanded, with 
a grim smile. “And now about the trimming.” 

“Yes, that’s my business,” announced Miss 
Lucy, who had been busy rummaging in a 
drawer in the wardrobe. “Now, Geraldine, 
what do you say to this?” and as she spoke she 
unpinned several yards of matchless old Brussels 
lace. 

“Although I had no lover,” she observed, 
looking over at her sister, “I had an aunt. She 
left me this in her will.” 

“Who is talking of lovers?” demanded Nar- 
cissa, with a pink tinge in her faded cheek and 
a sharp note in her voice. 

“Well, my day is over. I never had the 
makings of a wedding gown ; but maybe, if I’m 
spared, I’ll see this lace on a wedding dress.” 

“And maybe ye won’t,” snapped her sister. 
“Brussels has gone out.” 

“It’s going out, anyway, on the 25th — eh, 
Jerry?” said her sister, facetiously. 

“Oh, Miss Lucy, is it for my dress?” 

“And what else, dearie?” 

“You are both too — too good.” 

“And who else is there that is good to us, 
doatie?” patting her hand affectionately. 

“This lace is like a cobweb.” 

“ Well, now about the making-up,” said Miss 
Narcissa, assuming a business-like manner. 

“Yes, indeed, what is to be done?” asked 


214 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Jerry. ‘‘I can sew very neatly, and I might be 
able to do the skirt myself, but I should really 
be afraid to touch the body — and that lace.” 

‘‘I can well believe it, though I saw you com- 
ing here on a horse that looked just cracked 
crazy. Now I’ll tell you something. By the 
greatest good luck in the world Nan — that’s Pat 
Mooney’s daughter — is at home for a little 
change. She is a body hand in Dublin at a 
dressmaker’s, and she is going to do the whole 
turnout. I killed two birds with one stone, for 
I bespoke her and ordered the covered car at the 
same time.” 

“The dress will look beautiful,” exclaimed the 
girl. 

“Yes, come over here to the glass and see it.” 

“And will become you well,” observed Miss 
Narcissa, as she held a length of satin against 
Geraldine’s slim figure. 

“Ay, and this, too,” added Lucy, flinging a 
piece of lace over it. “We will trim the body 
with this, and have the skirt quite plain. You’ll 
not know yourself, Jerry, my good*girl!” and 
her old face wrinkled with glee. 

Geraldine laughed, a gay girlish laugh, as she 
looked into the long mirror, which reflected not 
only her smiling self but two anxious old faces, 
who were heaping upon her yards of exquisite 
satin and lace. 

“You will wear the O’Bierne emeralds, of 
course,” continued Miss Narcissa. 

“Shall I? Am I not too young?” 

“When will you ever get such a chance of 


BEYOND THE PALE 


215 


showing them? And a ball at Oarrig is no ball 
without the family jewels,” said Miss Narcissa, 
emphatically. 

“I thought, perhaps, that I might be too 
young,” repeated Geraldine. 

“Young!” cried Miss Lucy. “You were 
eighteen your last birthday, and my grand- 
mother had two fine children by the time she 
was that age.” ^ 

“Lucy,” ejaculated her sister, who was care- 
fully rolling up the satin, “I must say that you 
forget yourself, and that, although you are my 
own twin sister, you are sometimes very coarse.” 

“One can be too refined and particular in their 
ideas, Narcissa, as you know to your cost. Only 
for your dainty picking and choosing and — 
Well, well,” in answ'er to a really angry glance, 
“I say no more! at least I only say one word: 
Jerry, be sure you come early on the 24th.” 

“I’ll come as soon as it’s daylight, and I shall 
work hard from daylight till dark. I’ll work 
like — ” 

“Like this,” said Lucy, suddenly holding up 
a ne^le-scarred hand as an example. 

It was well known that these two poor old 
ladies worked hours and hours by day, and 
hours by night, at art needlework, blinding their 
already dim eyes, bending their aching backs, 
in order to earn a few shillings weekly. Really 
Miss Narcissa’s fingers were enough to draw 
tears from the eyes of a Jew pawnbroker. 

“We intend to have Nannie on the 20th in the 
house, and a machine at a shilling a day. You 


216 


BEYOND THE PALE 


shall pay for that,” said Miss Narcissa, play- 
fully. “Of course she could not work at that 
satin at home. It would be a nice sight, and 
she will put lace and style on our black brocades; 
the}^ are quite good still.” 

“Miss Narcissa,” said Jerry suddenly, “you 
did not ask for an invitation for me, did you?” 

“My goodness gracious, Jerry! What do you 
take me for? A Dwyer to go and ask for an in- 
vitation for an (t^Bierne! No, no, you were in- 
vited in proper form. It was Mr. and Mrs. 
Money’s own thought and wish entirely. I 
must confess that I am as pleased as Punch. 
Dear, dear, dear,” taking her arm as she went 
slowly downstairs, “^the first ball I ever went to 
was at Carrig, and I danced with your grand- 
father; he was a most elegant young man,” and 
as she said this she heaved a sudden, sharp sigh. 

However, what was one sigh to a whole series 
of smiles that rippled over her old face as she 
discussed the 25th with Geraldine and her sis- 
ter. Four hundred invitations, Liddell’s baud 
from Dublin, and the supper, fountains, awn- 
ings, palms, everything of the choicest. ^'Mr. 
Hare says that Lady Scariff has sent to London 
for her gown, and for a new white wig, and that 
the Mpneys have hired in thirty new serv'ants 
for a week; all to be turned out in the Money 
livery,” remarked Miss Narcissa with an air of 
childish delight. 

“What is the Money livery?” inquired Ger- 
aldine. 

“I’m sure I don’t know, child;” then she 


BEYOND THE PALE 217 

gave a little cackle as she added, ‘‘unless it is 
cloth of gold ! Not bad for a woman of eighty, 
eh? — Here is lunch! God bless me, Susan, can 
you do no better than bread and jam and milk?” 

It was certainly cold fare for a winter’s day, 
but the three who partook of it were, too happy 
and elated to know what was set before them, 
though Miss Narcissa, as she helped Jerry to 
skim-milk, said: 

“There is one thing I feel in my very heart, 
dearie — it’s having nothing to offer people when 
they come here. In my father’s time, it was 
dinner and lunch, and the best of wine and good 
living; even twenty years ago I never allowed 
any one to stir without a good meal. * Then it 
came down to cake and wine, then tea and cake. 
I can’t even give that now. I gave the Hares 
melon and buttermilk last summer, and by my 
faith, it was near being their last meal on earth. 
I thought anything was better than nothing; 
but it seems that I was wrong. Well, so you’re 
off! Yes. You see we have nothing for your 
horse, dear, and you’d better be going. A horse 
from Racehill would look twice at our musty 
hay. Give my compliments to Scully, and 
don’t let him back out of his promise. Be sure 
you make up a nice little speech for Lucy and 
me, and good-by. God bless you;” 

The two old ladies stood together and watched 
her mount her impatient hunter and ride away, 
and as she became a mere speck in the distance 
Lucy turned round and said : 

‘.‘There’s one 'thing I’d like to know. Cissy, 


218 


BEYOND THE PALE 


and that is, why a proud woman like 3"ourself, 
as might have been an O’Bierne, is so civil to 
these Money's, and why 3^ou are so desperate set 
on taking Jerry to the ball at Carrig?” 

‘‘Lucy,” drawing a long breath and looking 
fixedly at her sister, “between oui^selves, 1 
never gave you credit for much brains or wit, 
but if you can’t guess that riddle I give j-ou up 
for good.” 

And she walked out of the room, leaving Miss 
Lucy to put the puzzle together. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 

A PRIVATE CONVERSATION 

Mrs. Money considered herself a wise woman 
in her generation. She filled her house with a 
crowd of lively, amusing, and fashionable ac- 
quaintances, and she made no further mention 
of Miss O’Bierne and her invitation. No, not a 
word to Denis; it would be making the matter 
far too important. She would suffer (in two 
senses) the girl to come in the ordinaiy course, 
among^ ordinary guests. She and the two 
shabby old Dwyers would never be noticed. 
They would just pass in the crowd; she would 
make no fuss. These matters, such as young 
men’s fancies, were frequentlj- fanned into flame 
by the mere breath of opposition. She would 
retain a masterly inactivitj^, and Denis would 


BEYOND THE PALE 


219 


soon see the girl— supposing he did see her — 
in her true light. Contrasted with her present 
smart inmates, who ‘‘hiked,” and waltzed, and 
acted, and knew how to talk and dress and hold 
themselves, what a pitiful figure the poor little 
horsebreaker would cat. Yes, she was wise in 
her generation ; she would not whisper one syl- 
lable, or lift one finger. These were her tactics. 
Her husband’s were entirely different. 

“I say, Denis,” he remarked one day when, 
by a rare chance, they found themselves alone, 
“I’m making up my mind to purchase Carrig.” 

“Are you indeed, sir?” 

“For ready money down, I shall get it cheap 
— very cheap in comparison to the money that 
has been sunk in it.” 

“Yes, I believe several fortunes were wasted 
here.” 

“Now the question is, would you like me to 
buy the estate? In the long run it will be your 
concern, Denis, my boy.” 

“Yes; since you ask me, I must honestly con- 
fess that I should feel proud to know that Carrig 
was ours. It is a curious property. I am be- 
ginning to believe” — with a boyish laugh — “that 
it is, as they say, enchanted, and that Carrig 
casts a spell on whoever lives here.” 

“Very well, then, what you say settles it. I 
am about to become” — and he smiled — “a resi- 
dent Irish landlord. I shall write again to my 
solicitors to-morrow.” 

“Won’t you miss London, and your club?” 

“No, I can run over there. I am not in ban- 


220 


BEYOND THE PALE 


ishmeut. I am not a political prisoner. I shall 
spend at least eight months of the year here.” 

‘^And you might spend it in a worse place. 
But what about Julia?” 

‘‘Julia is under the impression that she was 
born to be the mistress of Carrig — the Lady 
Bountiful and entertainer of the county. That 
reminds me. This dance is going to be a very 
big thing, Denis. There are three hundred and 
eighty-seven acceptances. You would wonder 
where they all came from.” 

“Pm afraid you must have gone out into the 
highways and hedges, and compelled them to 
come in.” 

“I don't know about that. But, at any 
rate, we have asked one outsider — little Miss 
O’Bierne.” 

“Miss O’Bierne!” throwing his cigarette into 
the grate, sitting up, and looking hard at his 
father. “Well, Pm delighted to hear it. You 
did not include any of the rest of the party, I 
hope?” 

“No ; she is coming with the old Dwyers. She 
is fit to be received anywhere” — in an apologetic 
key. 

‘ ‘ Especially in the home that once belonged to 
her family,” agreed Denis, forcibly. 

“She is a nice girl,” announced Mr. Monej'', 
with more confidence. “I like her immensely.” 

“And so do I,” echoed his son, with heartfelt 
truth. 

“But Ju does not. She is desperately nervous 
about you, Denis. She is afraid there is some- 


BEYOND THE PALE 




thing between you and this girl. That would 
never do. There is no fear of that, is there?” 
rather anxiously. 

‘‘No fear,” suddenly standing up with his 
back to the fire, and looking down upon his 
father with a steady glance. “But if there 
were, why should it not do? I am not fit to 
tie Miss O’Bierne’s shoes. What is there against 
hei-r’""' 

“Her bringing up, her surroundings, public 
opinion. J u thinks she is doing a terribly risky 
thing in inviting her here at all.” 

“ Ju may make her mind quite easy. Here 
Miss O’Bierne should be more at home than 
herself.” 

“Yes,” looking round, “that is true. These 
books, pictures, carvings, and the very tables 
we sit at, were once the property of her folk. 
Well, whatever any one else may do, I shall 
treat her as an honored guest.” 

“Of course you will, my dear father; it is not 
in your nature to do otherwise.” 

“And — but look here, Denis, your attentions 
must not be conspicuous. My civilities will be 
those of an old married — twice married — man; 
yours might be misinterpreted. However, you 
relieve my mind greatly when you tell me that 
they mean nothing.” 

“If I implied that, let me undeceive you at 
once. It is not I who mean nothing. I mean 
everything.” 

“Good heavens, Denis,” struggling to get out 
of his chair. 


222 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“Wait,” spreading out a cool hand. “Hear 
me out. Miss O’Bierne it is who means noth- 
ing, as far as I am concerned. She will never 
consent to be the wife of any one who is not, 
like herself, descended from the kings of Ire- 
land.” 

Here the door opened, and admitted several 
searching, smiling young ladies, and all priv^ate 
conversation was at an end. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
“last but not least” 

On the night of the ball, a whole mile of 
torches lighted the guests along the avenue to 
Carrig, and as for the house itself, it was a 
blaze of illnmination. The company arrived 
with provincial punctuality; they were not 
compelled to show themselves at two or three 
more crushes; this festivity was their sole en- 
gagement, and an exceedingly agreeable func- 
tion it promised to be. 

The entrance hall was displayed to the utmost 
advantage by means of electric light. This mod- 
ern discovery vividly exhibited the ancient tro- 
phies and portraits, and threw out with surpris- 
ing distinctness the great family arms of the 
former owners, and their bold motto “O’Bierne 
a Boo. ’ ’ So much was this the case that num- 
bers of people now observed it for the first time. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


223 


Whenever they raised their eyes, this ‘JO’Bierne 
forever” seemed to flaunt itself right in the face 
of Mrs. Money’s guests. Yet it was merely Mr. 
Money’s latest outlay that had summoned from 
the shade these heraldic emblazonments, which 
the pride of the O’Biernes had placed above 
their stands of arms and armor. The grand 
corridor was hedged with immense palms and 
exotic plants, and at the door of the library Mrs. 
Money, wearing a smart, severely laced French 
gown, and superb diamonds, received her guests 
with effusion. 

In the ball-room (or yellow drawing-room) 
faint sounds of stringed instruments could be 
heard, above a kind of subdued society roar; but 
most of the company were assembled in the li- 
brary, which had been specially dedicated to 
sitters-out and chaperons. 

We notice Lord and Lady Scariff and a large 
party, a number of officers from Ballybawl — ay, 
and Limerick, Cork, Ballincollig; Mr. and Miss 
Hare; in short, all the county to a woman, and 
almost to a man; they are only waiting for the 
arrival of the Earl and Countess of Bundoran, 
to start the opening dances. 

And here comes the countess at last, looking 
wonderfully youthful (what a shame that her 
age should be publicly recorded in the peerage), 
tall, talkative, apologetic, wearing the Bundoran 
^‘fender” tiara), and a gown which ,had 

done yeoman’s service during the London sea- 
son, and which, were it not worn by a countess, 
we should not hesitate to stigmatize as a rag. 


224 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Her lad3^ship was closely followed a train 
of smart girls, all eager for the dance, and 
half a dozen smooth-faced, self-possessed young 
men. There was a buzz of greeting, then a 
pause, before the general move to the ball-room. 
During this momentaiy silence, the footman’s 
voice, which was getting somewhat hoarse, 
shouted “The Miss Dwyers.” ' 

Enter two old ladies side by side; thin, white, 
erect, suitably clad in black brocade and price- 
less lace, among which glittered some fine dia- 
monds. 

People turned, looked, gaped. 

“Where had they procured the rose point, and 
rose diamonds?” whispered one. “Heirlooms,” 
breathed another. “But they are so poor they 
don’t even take a newspaper,” added a third. 

These mutterings onl}^ lasted a few seconds. 
Ere they had ceased, the footman, in a sten- 
torian voice, announced yet another guest — the 
last arrival. 

Whether it was something in his tone, whether 
there was an echo, or whether it was in the list- 
eners’ own ears, the name “Miss O’Bierne” 
seemed to ring with a peculiar emphasis, to rise, 
and to die away reluctantly among the lofty 
oaken rafters. It was a name that had not 
been announced in that house for man}' j^ears; 
a name that stirred the hearts of the middle- 
aged, and called up many niemories; a name 
that awoke a strange confused feeling in the 
minds of most of the company. 

Miss O’Bierne’s appearance was totally unex- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


226 


pected, in every sense of the word. She walked 
alone, a tall, graceful, stately figure, despite her 
nineteen years, wearing a rich white satin gown 
veiled in lace, and a magnificent necklace of 
emeralds. The arrangement of her hair was as 
fashionable as her dress, and she carried in her 
hand a large fan of eagle’s feathers. 

Miss O’Bierne, on whom every^ye was riveted, 
did not appear to be the least shy, conscious, or 
embarrassed. She looked like the beautiful en- 
chanted figure of some ancient ballad, re-entering 
the home of her ancestors. 

‘‘Ay, observe how the good old blood tells. 
I’m a firm believer* in race,” exclaimed a man 
to his companion. “She is the picture of a well- 
born, well-bred girl.” 

“Bah,” retorted his lady listener, peevishly, 
“she has no end of side on, and looks the very 
spirit of pride, and as if the whole place belonged 
to her.” 

“And so it ought.” 

“Nonsense! Why, the last O’Bierne died a 
beggar. You can’t eat your loaf and have it.” 

“By all accounts. Miss O’Bierne has never had 
any loaf to eat,” retorted her champion, who was 
now intently staring at her. “But, at any rate, 
she takes the cake.” 

In the meanwhile the last arrival was admin- 
istering a disagreeable shock to her hostess, who 
could hardly find fitting words in which to greet 
Matt Scully’s riding girl, so boundless was her 
surprise. 

This young lady would never be overlooked 


226 


BEYOND THE PALE 


in a crowd. There was nothing insignific'ant 
about her; on the contrary, she would be distin- 
guished anyw-here, and in any company. Mrs. 
Money’s keen black eyes noted the splendid ca- 
bochon emeralds encircling her long white throat, 
the rare old lace, the costly satin gown. She, 
however, rallied sufficiently to tender two stiff’ 
fingers, and said, with a forced smile : 

“So glad to see you. The first time you have 
ever been at Carrig?” and there was an unpleas- 
ant double meaning in both lips and eyes. 

“Oh, no,” replied her guest, looking into her 
face with a keen proud glance, and speaking in 
a low but penetrating voice (a voice that was 
audible in every corner of the room). 

“No?” repeated Mrs. Money, raising her eye- 
brows with somewhat insolent incredulity. 

“I suppose you have not heard,” answered the 
girl, with a faint smile, “but, I was born here.” 

No; Mrs. Money had not heard, and she stood 
staring in common, dumb, vulgar amazement. 
In her little passage-at-arms with this young 
patrician beauty she had been most shamefully 
routed — figuratively, put to the sword. She 
grew by degrees of a deeper and deeper shade 
of crimson — crimson through all her “perle de 
riz”; for she felt ’as if she had just had her ears 
boxed — and that, before the whole county. 

“Born here! So you were, my dear,” ex- 
claimed Lady Bundoran, suddenly turning 
round and offering both her hands. “I was 
in the country at the time. It is just — let me 
see — nineteen years ago. I remember the bon- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


227 


fires on the Horseleap Mountain as if it was 
yesterday.” (Yes, positively the last flicker, 
before the fortunes of Carrig had expired.) 

- . Mrs. Borlase, who was staying in the house — 
the intinaate friend and confidante of Julia — 
looked on from afar at this little scene. Mrs. Bor- 
lase, made up, curled, bejeweled, smart to the tips 
of her fingers, was both amused and sorry — sorry 
for poor old Ju. Ju had met more than her 
match. She had marked the looks and whis- 
pers, the sensation the entrance of Miss O’Bierne 
had created; and what a different class of girl 
to what she had been led to expect! Miss 
O’Bierne carried herself with a mixture of sim- 
plicity and dignity, and was of the true Irish 
type, with her dark hair, her wonderful blue 
eyes, and her splendid emblematical emeralds. 
iSTo wonder Denis admired her! She positively 
dared not trust herself to glance at Denis’s step^ 
mother, who had poured many midnight confi- 
dences respecting Denis and his ‘‘low tastes” 
into her sleepy ears. There was the tall young 
lady, now being accosted with much cordiality 
by Mr. Money and his heir. 

“Well, wonders will never cease,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Vance, who was gorgeous in black and 
crimson. “Upon my word, quite the ‘grande 
dame’ or a ‘grande demoiselle’ she looks, and 
even better in an evening dress than on horse- 
back. Where did she get such a lovely gown, 
and such emeralds?” 

“Oh, those are the celebrated O’Bierne emer- 
alds,” was Mr. Hare’s prompt answer, “and 


228 


BEYOND THE PALE 


only a part of them. They have been in the 
family since the time of Charles the. Second — 
don’t ask how they got them — and were all Mrs. 
Scully had to bequeath.” 

‘‘Yes, Major Montfort, this is our dance,” said 
Mrs. Vance, taking his arm and moving with 
the crowd toward the ball-room. “I suppose 
you have noticed Miss O’Bierne?” 

“I could not well do otherwise. She made a 
sort of ^tate entree. We only wanted the guns 
and the red carpet. Last, but by no means 
least, I can see that she is a beautiful girl; and 
I hear that she is an Irish princess.” 

“She is. You have seen her before, of course?” 

“Yes; and I once saw her nearly killed. She 
had the narrowest shave in the world. I never 
was so frightened in my life.” 

“Poor Jerry, I have no doubt she 'risks her 
neck every day in the week without honor, glory, 
or thanks.” 

“And every one will take her up now, I pre- 
sume?” 

“Only as long as she is at Creeshe,” responded 
Mrs. Vance expressively. “Once back at Race- 
hill, she is beyond the pale. However, I am 
going to get introduced to her as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

“To drop her to-morrow! Is it worth while?” 

“Nonsense! I am not that sort. See; she is 
going to dance with Lord Scariff. Does she not 
look much more like a young lady who would 
drop me? But I shall not submit to that. I 
mean to stick to her like a burr.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 229 

There is always a wonderful amount of life 
and go in thesei 'country balls. On the present 
occasion the dance was speeding with unflag- 
ging spirit. Everything had been superbly 
done; refreshments, flowers, music, lighting. 
The former traditions of Carrig were not 
merely equaled, but surpassed. Even the two 
Miss^ wyers secretly admitted this to themselves, 
as they sat among the fringe of chaperons, en- 
joying the scene vastly in their own way, and 
greedily drinking in every encomium respect- 
ing Geraldine, on whom, when occasion offered, 
they feasted their faded old eyes. She was the 
belle of the ball, she “took the cake,” as her 
champion had expressed it, not so much for 
beauty (though her beauty v/as undeniable) as 
for her air of breeding and supreme distinction. 
When she had been introduced to Mrs. Vance 
and Katie Hare, the latter said, with rather red 
embarrassment, “Fve always felt that I ought 
to know Miss O’Bierne, and that, in a way, I 
did know you.” 

“By sight,” put in her cousin, with a ruthless 
laugh and a nudge. 

“But I’m sure you understand why I could 
never call at Racehill, much as I would have 
liked to have done so,” continued Kathleen, al- 
most piteously. “But I hope you will allow me 
to be friends with you all the same?” 

“I shall be only too glad.” 

“And you will come and see me?”’ 

“I don’t know. I must hear what Mr. Scully 
says.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Ji30 

‘‘If he says a word against it, I’ll punch his 
head,” said Mr. Hare valiantly: “Your father 
and I were old chums. Miss O’Bierne, and you 
are very like him.” - 

-Nothing succeeds like success. It is an in- 
dispensable stepping-stone to the good graces 
of most people. Mr. Hare subsequently went 
about the whole evening, retailing stori^^ of 
the grand days of the O’Biernes, and pointing 
out (as if she was his* own brilliant discovery) 
their last descendant, as “a real chip of the old 
block.” 

Was this because Cinderella was beautifully 
dressed, greatly admired, and the recipient of 
unbounded attention? 

The host himself danced a quadrille with her, 
and placed her at the top of the room. Lord 
Bundoran escorted her to have an ice (sternly 
recalling his mind for the occasion from the 
store city of Pithon) and soon found himself 
deep in an animated discussion with the last 
and handsomest of the O’Biernes. Lady Scariff 
was voluble in her praise, and a regiment of 
young men clamored for introductions. Mr. 
Money paid the most marked attention to the 
Miss Dwyers. He conducted Miss Narcissa to 
the refreshment room, afterward promenaded 
her round the rooms on his arm, and listened 
respectfully to her old-fashioned prattle. 

“It is all vastly fine, and a most elegant en- 
tertainment,” she said. “What a boon to all 
the young people; and Mrs. Money can give 
them this pleasure, without the least fatigue or 


BEYOND THE PALE 


231 


anxiety.” She paused, and they contemplated, 
from the doorway, the dancers in the ball-room, 
a remarkably brilliant assembly. 

‘‘Mi ss O’Bierne looks splendid,” remarked Mr. 
Money, glancing at where Geraldine and Lord 
Bundoran stood against the opposite wall. 

“Yes, my dear god-daughter ; she has the 
heart of a lion and the face of a flower, as well 
as the grace and air of good breeding — which -no 
evil surroundings can 'extinguish.” Then she 
sighed as she added, “I have a hundred good 
wishes for her, but no power to carry them 
out.” 

As they turned into a corridor lined with 
pictures, he said: “You know this place of old, 
and all the family?” 

“Well, I know it and them, since I was car- 
ried there in my nurse’s arms. Now, my con- 
temporaries are all gone — every one. It is the 
doom of advancing years to see friend after 
friend depart.” Then, dn a brisker key, “I 
hope you like Ireland, Mr. Money, and find 
yourself at home here.” 

“I do, indeed. Miss Dwyer. I feel as if I 
have lived in Ireland in a former life. I could 
almost believe in the transmigration of souls, 
there is something so • familiar, so surprisingly 
familiar, in my surroundings; and I actually 
have discovered myself warmly in sympathy 
with some traits of Irish character.” 

“I’m sure we ought to feel vastly flattered.” 

(Was this ironical or was it in good faith?) 

He hastened to add — “I have Irish blood in 


232 


BEYOND THE PALE 


my veins. My father was Irish, though he left 
the country as a boy.’’ 

‘^Indeed! Money is not an Irish name, nor 
indeed very common in Ireland in any sense,” 
with a feeble little laugh. ‘‘You see, over here 
the locality of a family can be fixed at once. 
Connells of Clonlara, O’Biernes of Oarrig, 
Dwyers of Creeshe, and all of the County 
Killesher. To every family their own county; 
and when they are found elsewhere, they are 
mostly interlopers or nobodies.” 

“I’ve never heard my father allude to his 
birthplace. But I have known him speak of 
Clorane. I fancy we are Moneys of Clorane,” 
observed Mr. Money, with considerable dignity. 

“Clorane!” with a sudden change of voice, 
and slowly dropping his arm. “Well — to be 
sure!” 

“Do you know anything of the estate or the 
family?” asked Mr. Money, eagerly. 

“Was your father’s name Peter?” 

“Yes, it was,” now actually beaming upon 
his venerable guest. 

She came gradually to a standstill, paused, 
and contemplated her host .with an indescrib- 
able expression, as she straightened her stiff old 
shoulders. 

“Can you tell me anything about his family?” 
repeated her companion. 

“No, Mr. Money. No, I really cannot,” with 
a faint, commiserating smile. “No, nothing at 
all.” As she spoke, her eyes seemed to look 
through and through him. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


283 


Mr. Money’s face fell. So this old Miss Dwyer 
had merely raised his hopes to dash them to the 
I ground. 

I “I’m a little fatigued,” she continued, “and 
! I will be glad to find a seat,” looking round and 
I suddenly placing herself in a high backed arm- 
I chair. “Please don’t let me detain you from 
your other guests. I’m only an old woman; I 
I have my own thoughts for company. . . Pray 
go, pray go,” and she abruptly waved him 
i -away, with somewhat chilling dignity. 

Thus dismissed, Mr. Money hurried off down 
the corridor, for he had many urgent claims 
upon his attention. Had he happened to glance 
back he would have been surprised. He would 
have seen the old lady sitting rigidly erect in her 
stiff armchair, gazing after him, with a face 
which was not merely white, but scared. 


CHAPTER TWEOTY-EIGHT 

THE LITTLE TABLE IN THE CORNER 

Denis was struggling conscientiously through 
a series of duty dances, but he had put two pri- 
vate marks on his card, which marks represented 
his reward and solace. These signified that he 
was to conduct Miss O’Bierne in. to supper and 
to sit out the supper dances in her company. 
Meanwhile, he was working hard— introducing 
partners, dancing incessantly, and inspiring 
other men by his vigorous example. 


f 234 BEYOND THE PALE 

Lady Bundoran waltzed admirably and untir- 
ingly (and she had waltzed her great tiara into 
a rakish position). 

“She, the mother of a grown-up family!’’ ex- 
claimed the two scandalized Miss Dwyers. “It’s 
most unseemly. Why, Lucy,” said Miss Nar- 
cissa, who had recovered her composure, “she 
must be fifty-six. I call it undignified; most 
indecorous. Just look at her!” 

“Oh, my dear, what was unseemly in our day 
is quite proper now. You and J are old fossils, 
and times are changed.” 

“Yes, indeed; only think, young Money came 
and asked me to stand up with him for a qua- 
drille. He meant it as a compliment. He was 
quite in earnest.” It was evident that Miss 
Narcissa was still susceptible to a little atten- 
tion and secretly delighted. 

“Then it was a French compliment,” sneered 
Miss Lucy, slightingly. “Of course, he knew 
that a woman of eighty would not dance— unless 
she was in her second childhood!” 

It was undeniably hard upon poor Miss Lucy, 
that even now, after a lapse of sixty years, the 
scenes of her youth should be repeated, and that 
her elder sister should still continue to eclipse 
her in a ball-room. 

Geraldine O’Bierne contented herself with 
looking on (neyer alone), and when at last the 
“Roast Beef of Old England” sounded she was 
joined by Denis Money, who, thanks to his ex- 
ertions, was almost breathless, and could only 
just manage to gasp out, “This is our supper.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


235 


There is, however, many a slip between the 
cup and the lip, and Mrs. Money happened to 
be the cause of the slip on this occasion. As 
Denis was triumphantly leading Miss O’Bierne 
toward the dining-room — she herself being con- 
ducted by Lord Bundoran — bis stepmother 
tapped him quickly with her fan, and said : 

“My dear boy, there is Mrs. Melton-Mo wbray. 
Lady Scariff’s sister, left alone sitting fuming 
in the library. You must go at once and take 
her in to supper. Miss — a — O’Bierne,” as if she 
recollected her name with a great mental effort, 
“will, I am sure, excuse you,” and she marched 
on. 

“What a nuisance!” exclaimed this society 
martyr. 

“Of course you must go,” said Geraldine. 
“Please don’t think of me. I really don’t want 
any supper.” 

“What nonsense! I say, look here,” hastily 
accosting Ulick Doyne, “will you look after 
Miss O’Bierire, and take her into supper?” 

“Only too much honored,” with a deep bow. 

“Get a small table, and keep two places at it, 
and I’ll join you in five minutes,” and he van- 
ished. 

“I<3all this great luck forme. Miss O’Bierne. 
It has been as hard to get near you to-night as 
it is out hunting,” said Denis’s substitute, as 
they walked together into the dining-room. The 
great room was brilliantly lighted up. Supper 
was served at small tables, and two hundred 
people were seated round them. Ulick Doyne 


236 


BEYOND THE PALE 


made his way to a table laid for six, and at which 
Mrs. Vance and Major Montfort were already 
comfortably established. “Quite a cozy corner!” 
exclaimed Doyne, “and where we can command 
the whole room.” 

^ “Yes; that’s why I chose it,” rejoined Mrs. 
Vance. “I like to see all the people— what they 
wear, what they eat, and how they behave.” 

“Ah! and you have placed yourself where no 
one can overlook you. I’m to keep two seats 
here for Denis and his young lady. Soup, Miss 
O’Bierne?” 

“Here is Mr. Money coming now,” remarked 
Mrs. Vance, “and I shouldn’t call the lady he 
is bringing in young.” 

Nor was she — a well-preserved woman of 
sixty-five, dressed to look thirty, wearing a 
light auburn wig, a diamond tiara, a very high 
black aigrette, and a very low pink dress. 

The Hon. Mrs. Melton-Mowbray was a 
widow, unencumbered, with so large a balance 
at her banker’s that she considered that she 
could do what she liked and say whatever she 
pleased. She particularly prided herself on the 
latter latitude, and was rather spoiled by a cer- 
tain London set, who enjoyed her toothsome 
little dinners and her lively and exciting card 
parties, where the stakes were not “love.” 
Mrs. Melton-Mowbray patronized the Turf, had 
a book on most of the big events, and was a 
familiar figure at Newmarket. 

This was the lady who was now bearing down 
upon the little table in the corner. When she 


BEYOND THE PALE 


237 


had seated herself, spread out her skirts, ar- 
ranged her fan and serviette, and taken in her 
companions, she said: “Soup, yes; it’s sustain- 
ing if it’s good.” Then, putting up her long- 
handled eyeglass and looking round, “Dear me; 
quite palatial. I’m so glad I happened to be 
over. I’ve never been to a ball in Ireland 
before. No sign of rags and tatters here, eh? 
Everything thoroughly well done.” 

Denis smiled, as he poured her out a glass 
of champagne, which she quickly emptied, 
exclaiming as she did so; 

“Oh, I forgot; this is your show, and you are 
English.” 

“But the house is Irish,” put in Mrs. Vance 
rather pointedly. 

Mrs. Mowbray slowly turned her glasses on 
her, and, examining her critically, drawled : 

“Oh, I suppose it is. And all these portraits 
—these people in armor and powder and wigs — 
iurely not your forefathers, Mr. Money?” ele- 
/ating her painted eyebrows with indescribable 
surprise. 

“No,” with a good-humored laugh, “I wish 
they were.” 

“Upon my word, quite an imposing-looking 
collection. And, pray, whose ancestors are 
they?” 

“They are the ancestors of Miss O’Bierne. 
Miss O’Bierne — Mrs. Melton-Mo wbray.” 

Miss O’Bierne bowed; the elder lady merely 
stared, and then, addressing her, said, “I like 
that funny old gentleman over the chimney- 


238 


BEYOND THE PALE 


piece, with the red cloak and the sword. How 
wicked he looks! Who is he?” 

“I really do not know.” 

‘‘What! Not know your own ancestors by 
sight? Dear me, how exceedingly fin de siecle!” 
and she swallowed a mouthful of pheasant. 

‘‘Miss O’Bierne,” said Mrs. Vance, leaning 
forward, “let me introduce you to Sir Gerald 
O’Bierne; perhaps you know him now?” 

“Yes, thank you,” with a sedate little smile, 
“my great-grandfather,” and she examined him 
gravely. 

“And you are like him,” remarked Mrs. 
Mowbray, who ate surprisingly fast. “And 
still more like that lady with the greyhound — as 
like, that is to say, as a very handsome woman 
can resemble a very plain one.” 

Geraldine colored deeply; Mrs. Vance tittered. 
There was an awkward silence. Mrs. Mowbray, 
who was staring at Geraldine’s lace and emer- 
alds through her eyeglass, noticed her discom- 
posure, and said, “I see an Irish girl can blush. 
My young friends have quite got out of the 
way of it. I’m sure it’s not the first time 
you have been told that you are handsome, 
my dear?” 

“Really, Mrs. Mowbray, Irish women are not 
accustomed to such barefaced, highly colored 
compliments,” protested Mrs. Vance, and she 
looked significantly at that lady’s brilliant com- 
plexion. 

“I think I’ll have some plovers’ eggs,” was 
Mrs. Mowbray’s sole reply; and while she was 


BEYOND THE PALE 


239 


discussing them the other people began to dis- 
cuss the frost, the meets, their fellow-guests, 
and odds and ends of local news. 

‘‘Is it true that you are going back to India in 
April, Mrs. Vance?” asked Ulick Doyne, with 
a doleful glance. 

“In April? No, indeed; and arrive out there 
for the best of the hot weather? I am a very 
devoted wife, but I am not disposed to offer 
myself up as a burnt sacrifice as yet.” 

“Oh, no, we could never allow that,” he re- 
sponded, expressively. “Suttee has been abol- 
ished. and Ireland cannot spare you.” 

“By the way, Ulick, I got my letters just 
before dinner,” broke in Mrs. Mowbray--“a 
budget from Lady Bitterpille. Little Mrs. Tall- 
boys has bolted at last with young Flowerdew, 
and Cora Flashe, of the Impropriety, has. sent 
his letters. Well! What is it? What are you 
frowning at me for? Ob,” with an expansive 
smile, “I forgot. I am in Ireland, where. every 
one is so very proper and painfully straitlaced. 
AYell, I suppose there is no harm in telling you 
that Brenhilda Pierrepont is engaged. The man 
proposed after dinner, and thought better of it 
next morning; but already her wily mother had 
wired the news to all the papers — sent off the 
intelligence by daybreak, and the poor wretch 
was an hour too late! Ha! ha! ha!” 

“Lady Bundoran is as keen to dance as if she 
was twenty, and looks wonderfully well, doesn’t 
she. Aunt Jane?” 

“Yes,” unconsciously patting her own thick, 


240 


BEYOND THE PALE 


expensive fringe. ‘‘Keep young as long as you 
can. That’s my motto. She is over fifty.” 

“Forty they say is the old age of youth, and 
fifty the youth of old age,” remarked Major 
Montfort. 

“And pray what is sixty?” demanded Mrs. 
Vance, looking fixedly at Mrs. Melton-Mo wbray. 

“Some are still in their prime at sixty,” was 
his diplomatic reply. 

“It’s all a matter of constitution. If we ate 
nothing but apples and nuts, some declare we 
should live till well over a hundred,” observed 
Denis Money. 

Mrs. Melton - Mowbray shuddered. “Nuts 
and apples! Monkey fare! I’d much prefer to 
take my chance on trufHes and plovers’ eggs.” 

Denis had been constantly administering dain- 
ties to his partner, in the hopes that a rapid sup- 
ply would accelerate her departure and set him 
at liberty. But no; she kept on eating and 
drinking and talking, and constantly glancing 
over at Geraldine O’Bierne. She admired her 
immensely — her fine features, thoughtful ex- 
pression, beautifully set-on head — and what 
lace ! 

“Pray, do you know the latest odds on the 
Manchester Cup?” she suddenly demanded of 
her companion. 

“No, I can’t say that I do.” 

“Then you are not a racing man? How dull !” 

“No, I’m only a hunting man.” 

“Do you hunt. Miss O’Bierne?” to Geraldine. 

. “Oh, yes. Three or four days a week.” . 


BEYOND THE PALE 


241 


‘^Miss O’Bierne is a celebrated horsewoman, 
and cuts us all down. I’m never within three 
fields of her,” said Ulick Doyne. • 

‘‘Pray do you ever hunt in couples over here?” 
smiling over her wineglass. 

“No, no. Aunt Jane,” answered her nephew. 
“Here it’s every one for himself, and the devil 
take the hindmost.” 

“Do you know that you interest me very 
much, young lady?” continued Mrs. Mowbray, 
addressing Geraldine. “ A young lady who 
cuts down the field, and who cuts her ancestors ! 
Are you staying in the neighborhood?” 

“Yes, I live near this,” she answered, with a 
distant air. 

'“Then I hope I shall see you again. I’m 
going to the Castle next week. Shall you be at 
the first drawing-room?” 

“No, nor any,” with a little amused smile. 

“Well, when you are in London next season 
mind you come and look me up. Maria will 
give you my address.” 

The band was now playing “Beauty’s Eyes” 
waltz (1>he second supper dance). Denis stood 
up, glanced expressively at her empty plate,* and 
said, “Very sorry, Mrs. Mowbray, but I’m en- 
gaged for thie; may I take you back?” 

“Oh, yes, certainly,” now rising and sweep- 
ing up fan and gloves. “But I so much wanted 
to have a talk with that chaTming girl; she has 
an individuality so marked, so rare. She is so 
uncommon — a typical Irish beauty — dark, a 
little grave, a little distant, and wearing so 


242 BEYOND THE PALE 

appropriately the gem of the Emerald Isle. 
You admire, of course?” looking at him quickly. 

“Of course; we all do.” 

“It’s quite refreshing to meet a new type, in 
this artificial, machine-made age. Ah!” with 
a profound sigh, “what would I not give to be 
her — with all my good days before me!” Then, 
with a complete change of tone, “By the way, 
do you think you could get hold of the evening 
paper? I want to have one peep at the Man- 
chester betting.” 

“I’ll have a try, but everything has been 
pretty well routed out of this library,” 

“I’ve got such a heavy book on. And, wait 
a second, if you come across that girl do bring 
her to me. I like looking at her.” 

Having placed Mrs. Melton-Mowbray in a 
chair beside Miss Narcissa (who contemplated 
her with profound amazement), Denis effected 
his escape, in order to devote himself to the very 
girl who interested this lady so much; but ere 
he reached the door she had summoned him 
back. “Look here, I’m dying for a smoke! Is 
there anywhere that I could have a cigarette — 
anywhere short of the kitchen?” 

Miss Narcissa — who had been a notable 
woman to hounds, and need not have been so 
shocked — instantly rose with an indignant shake 
of her stiff brocade skirt, and rustled away, with 
much dignity, to a more congenial and correct 
neighborhood. 

“Well, thank goodness, I have got rid of Mrs. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


243 


Melton-Movvbray at last,” exclaimed young 
Money to Geraldine. “She is extremely anx- 
ious to improve her acquaintance with you^ 

“I think she had much better improve her 
manners,” rejoined the girl, as £hey walked 
slowly into the entrance hall and looked about 
them. 

“The electric light shows off the carving and 
banners, does it not, and all the real old armor? 
No Wardour Street here.” 

“Everything is new to me,” replied his com- 
panion. “Whose armor is that?” pointing with 
her fan. 

“That armor is the suit that was worn by 
Hardress O’Bierne at the battle of Cullens wood, 
near Dublin. He was lucky to have it, for his 
clan fought in their linen coats.” 

“And that?” indicating another. 

“That is the casque and lance of Nial 
O’Bierne, who fought against Essex. This 
standard an ancestor of yours took at Fon- 
tenoy.” 

“From the English?” with a significant smile. 

“Yes. He was one of the young Kerry 
‘Wild Geese’ that were recruited for the French 
and Austrian armies. That handsome fellow 
with the green sash was one of Clare’s Dra- 
goons, killed at Ramillies. — Which side would 
you fight on now. Miss O’BierneTr” 

“Jitter not ask me,” with a laugh, and a 
quic"^elevation of her chin. 

“I believe you are a little rebel! All the 
same, many of your forefathers have fought for 


241 BEYOND THE PALE 

England. Do you see that long, prim-faced 
boy, with a high stock and scarlet coat? That 
is a portrait of your grand-uncle Dermot, a cor- 
net in the Scots Greys, who charged and fell at 
Waterloo, aged twenty. Now, shall we go up- 
stairs to the tapestry corridor, and find a seat?” 

As they moved away several pairs of eyes fol- 
lowed them with keen interest, That would be 
an ideal match ! It would restore the old family 
once more to the old place. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 

'■A SHUILLISH MACHREE” 

(light of my heart) 

Mr. Denis Money and the daughter of the 
house were soon ensconced in either corner of 
a comfortable chesterfield sofa, from whence 
they could just hear faint sounds of the b^nd 
and a subdued hum of Voices. 

"Ht is a beautiful old house, is it not?” he 
asked, leaning back, and gazing up at the 
painted ceiling. 

‘Ht is, indeed. I am glad to have seen it,” 
she responded. 

“It ought to be your home,” bringing down 
his head with a jerk and looking at her ®iYe* 
ly. “I ought to be the visitor. We are m the 
wrong places. It is a monstrous thing that I, 
an interloper, should live here, and be showing 


BEYOND THE PALE 


245 


you round your family gods, and introducing 
you to your ancestors.” 

She made no reply, merely continued to fan 
herself mechanically. 

“I Suppose Carrig is very old?” he resumed. 

“Not nearly as venerable as you might sup- 
pose; but it is full of old things brought from 
old Carrig — that is, the real and original family 
place; they say that the O’Biernes left all their 
luck there when they abandoned it.” 

“Where is old Carrig. I have never heard of 
it?” 

“It is on a hill, about four miles from here, 
the Horseleap Mountain.” 

“I remember perfectly. Strange to say, my 
first walk was over there, and I came across 
such extraordinary people.” (Yes, Mrs. Shea, 
who had told him of this selfsame little girl, 
who lived by horses.) “Paddy Pinafore, for 
instance, who declared that the hill is enchanted, 
and that dead and gone O’Biernes gallop there 
still of a night.” 

“I gallop there often; there is capital going 
along those old grassy roads— Roman or Danish 
remains, they say — and I constantly go up the 
hill, to see some pensioner, and visit old Carrig.” 

“Do you really. May I accompany you the 
next time you go?” 

“I cannot tell when that -will be,” was the 
evasive reply.” 

“Oh, Denis,” exclaimed Mrs. Borlase, sud- 
denly standing before .him. “Your mother 
was looking for you everywhere two hours 


246 


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ago, before supper. Has she not found you 
yet?” 

‘‘Alas! she found me, indeed, and before sup- 
per. I am now enjoying a well-deserved holi- 
day.” 

‘^So I see,” glancing at Miss O’Bierne with 
swift scrutiny. As she looked at the small, 
proud face that was slowly raised above the fan 
of eagles’ feathers, she told herself that this 
dark-haired Irish beauty was one of the hand- 
somest girls she had ever seen. And she was 
Denis Money’s fate. Denis — the gay, the unim- 
pressionable, the flirt — was desperately in love, 
caught in earnest. He meant to marry this girl 
— that is to sa3", if she would accept him. 

With a gay little nod of her head, Mrs. Bor- 
lase swept on — the match had her consent. 

“Thank goodness, she has departed, and now 
we can have our talk out,” said Denis. “What 
were we saying? Oh, I know — about old Car- 
rig. I want to see it, I should like to go over 
it.” 

“You had better not attempt that, I warn 
you,” she answered with a smile. “In the first 
place, it is all tumbling to pieces; and, in the 
second, that part of the estate is said to be en- 
chanted and under a spell.” 

“I cannot be worse than I am.” 

“Do you mean that you are tumbling to 
pieces?” and she gave a little, mocking laugh. 

“You are much too clever for me. You know 
perfectly well what I mean.” 

“Well, if you were trying to pay me a clumsy 


BEYOND THE PALE 


247 


compliment, please don’t,” with a jerk of her 
chin. 

^‘I’m not a flyer at paying compliments, and 
I meant no harm, upon my word. Don’t crush 
me, I implore you; but tell me some more about 
the fairies.” 

“Did you notice a sort of fort, or great mound, 
on the hill?” she asked, sitting up in her corner. 

“Yes, I believe I did; but I had so much to 
notice the day I was there.” 

“The country peoifle declare quite solemnly 
that one of my ancestors — I don’t think he is in 
the dining-room — an Irish chieftain, and all his 
warriors, lie there asleep under a spell.” 

“I say, this is something like! Do tell me the 
whole story,” edging a little nearer .to her. 

“The story is this: That a countryman com- 
ing home from a fair one summer’s night, and 
leading his horse, met another man, who ac- 
costed him and offered him double for his bar- 
gain. He agreed — naturally. .The other then 
took him inside the Rath, and there, to his sur- 
prise, he saw rows of saddled horses, and by 
each horse lay an armed man asleep. He was 
assured he would be all right, if he did not touch 
man or beast; but, unfortunately, he stumbled 
over a soldier, who awoke, started up, and called 
out, ‘Wuil anam inh?’ which means Hs it time 
yet?’ To which the horse-dealer answered, “Tha 
niel gho dhee collhow areesht.’ ‘No, lie down 
and sleep.’” 

“I do like to hear you speaking Irish,” inter- 
rupted Denis. 


248 


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‘^Yes, but don’t you want to hear the end of 
the story? The man found himself by daylight 
on the hillside, alone — the Rath was empty,” 
waving her fan with a wide swoop. 

‘‘Of course,” acquiesced young Money, with 
a broad smile. 

‘^The horse was gone.”^ 

‘‘Of course,” repeated her companion, still 
more emphatically. 

“How very tiresome you are! There was a 
purse of money beside him — heav^y as it was, he 
never touched it, but threw it down a well, for 
it was fairy gold.” 

“And so he lost the price of his horse. That 
would never answer in everyday life, would it?” 

“No. Just fancy Mr. Scully throwing the 
price of a horse down a well.” 

“By the way, Pat is a fairy horse; I ought 
not to have paid for him.” 

“I think you will find him a good fairy.” 

“So-I do. I’m very fond of Pat. Pat Dim — 
Black Pat. Miss O’Bierne, I wish you would 
give me a few lessons in Irish; it would come in 
so useful in the shooting season.” 

“Yes; people will do more for you when you 
speak to them in their own tongue, however 
badly.” 

“Then just tell me what does ‘Agra, achushla 
machree alannah asthore colleen dhu ’ mean.” 

‘ ‘ One at a time, please, ’ ’ she protested. ‘ ‘ Agra, 
darling; achushla machree, pulse of my heart; 
colleen dhu, dark girl.” 

“I heard a priest saying yesterday that seventy 


BEYOND THE PALE 


249 


thousand people still speak Irish only, and that 
it’s the finest language in the wide Yrorld to ex- 
press sorrow or love. How I wish that I could 
learn it! But I am an awful duffer at foreign 
tongues. I can just talk enough French to 
make myself disagreeable.” 

‘'Oh, then, you could never learn Irish,” she 
replied, as she threw back her head with a smile. 
“Besides, you are too old. One has to pick it up 
when one is in pinafores.” 

There was a moment’s pause, then he turned 
round, faced her, and said abruptly ; 

“Miss O’Bierne, you have ‘come out’ at Car- 
rig, which is right and fitting.” 

“It is very kind of you to say so,” waving her 
fan very gently, and raising her eyes to his face 
with a glance of slow pride. 

“You love Carrig?” 

“Yes, indeed, I do— every stone, every tree, 
and every blade of grass.” 

“Then how would you like to live here” — his 
voice suddenly became husky and tremulous — 
“with me? You love Carrig; I love you.” 

“Mr. Money” — sitting very erect and eying 
him over her fan with astonishing composure — 
“fairy tales are over for this evening.” 

“But it -is no fairy tale that I am trying to tell 
you,” he protested, vehemently. 

“i think it is. You had much better leave 
such stories to an Irish tongue. Ah, here are 
the two Miss Dwyers coming to take me home” 
— for the two old ladies were already upon them. 

What Denis Money mentally exclaimed need 


250 


BEYOND THE PALE 


not be here recorded, but he rose most reluct- 
antly from his seat as Miss Narcissa rustled up 
to them. 

^‘I’m really ver}^ sorry, Geraldine, but it’s two 
o’clock and we must go, or Pat Mooney won’t 
be able to see the road at all.” 

‘‘Yes, Miss Narcissa, I am quite ready,” ris- 
ing as she spoke. 

“This is a splendid ball,” remarked the old 
lady to Denis, as he walked beside her. He 
really was a most personable young man; he 
had looked very much in earnest in what he was 
saying to Jerry. Please Heaven, they had not 
come at the wrong moment. 

“I am glad you think it has gone off well.” 

“Indeed, we have enjoyed ourselves greatlry,” 
said Miss Dwyer. “It was like old times — the 
good old times.” 

“I’ve often heard of you from Miss O’Bierne, 
and the books you kindly lend her.” 

“Yes, we endeavor to improve her mind with 
the English classics” (was Mrs. Trimmer an 
English classic?). “And you may notice how 
well and distinctly she expresses herself,” she 
added, as they followed Geraldine and Miss 
Lucy down the stairs. 

Yes, she expressed her thoughts too .distinctly 
sometimes, and yet would not suffer him to make 
himself seriously understood. 

“May I call your carriage?” he asked, as they 
reached the hall. 

“Indeed, then, it’s a cover car — Pat Mooney’s. 
And the Lord send he is sober! We will just go 


BEYOND THE PALE 


251 


and get our wraps/’ and they filed into the ladies’ 
room. 

The shabby cover car was already in waiting, 
and Denis handed in first Miss' Dwyer, then 
Miss Lucy. 

“Stop,” cried the later, nervously, with her 
foot upon the step. “Find out if Paddy is safe. 
William Driscoll, ask him to breathe on ye. Do 
ye hear me?” 

“He’s pretty well. Miss Dwyer,” said the 
footman, “and will drive you all right, as long 
as you don’t spake to him, or fluster him.” 

Meanwhile Denis snatched a last word with 
Geraldine in the hall. 

“Did you like it?” he asked, as he held her 
hand tightly in his. 

“Yes, very much indeed, thank you,” she 
answered, earnestly. 

“We will finish that fairy tale another time,” 
and, as he led her down the steps, he pressed her 
fingers and whispered: “Good-night, ma colleen 
dhu, a shuillish machree.” 

The cover car immediately started at a rapid 
pace, and when it had vanished, Denis returned 
indoors and took an active part in promoting the 
remainder of the flying hours. The last guests 
took their departure about six o’clock in the 
morning; and the great ball at Carrig has had 
no rival in the country to the present day. 


252 


BEYOND THE PALE 


CHAPTER THIRTY 

PADDY THE DRIVER 

The cover car, in which were the Miss Dwyers 
and Geraldine, tore over the grass, bumping, 
pitching, and swaying like a ship at sea. It is 
to be hoped that few may ever experience what 
it is to be driven down hill by a drunken driver 
at a break-neck gallop in a crazy conveyance- 
through a demesne full of rabbit holes and trees. 

Miss Narcissa remained dumb and motionless, 
she was a woman of great nerve ; but Lucy was 
always timid, she lifted up her cracked old voice 
and screeched — ‘^Police, murder, fire!” Mean- 
while Geraldine pulled down the little front 
window, and addressed Pat. 

/‘What are you about, Pat Mooney? Do you 
want to kill us? Keep on the avenue at once ; 
do you hear me?” 

“Sure, he is coming along after me. And 
didn’t I see him on his big horse at the corner — 
old Brian himself?” 

‘ ‘ Pull up, Paddy, I order you ! Paddy Mooney, 
do you hear me?’ ’ But they were already through 
the big gates, which fortunately stood wide, and 
galloping along the road. The distance was but 
a mile, the horse was a sober, sensible beast, and 
after a most exciting and adventurous journey 


BEYOND THE PALE 


253 


the cover car discharged the three ladies safely 
at Creeshe hall door, though Miss Dwyer was 
almost speechless with rage, and Miss Lucy was 
in a state of mild hysterics. 

“Take him round and put him somewhere — 
the pigsty for the night, and unyoke his horse, 
Susan,” commanded her mistress, “or he’ll kill 
some people going home. It was only by the 
grace of the Almighty we are spared and stand- 
ing here alive.” 

And Susan — a powerful, determined woman — 
who knew Paddy of old, led the vehicle round 
to the yard, unyoked the car, and stabled both 
horse and driver comfortably for the night, the 
former in a stall, the latter in a loose box. 

The next morning Paddy presented himself in 
the hall, a whip in one hand,, hat in the other, 
and a broad bold smile upon his face. 

^‘Well, Miss Narcissa,” he exclaimed, with a 
complacent grin.- “Ye see what the drink done 
on me !” 

“Paddy, you are shameless, a hopeless ras- 
cal,” she answered sternly. “Do you know 
that you nearly killed us last night? For us 
old women, maybe no matter, but you risked 
the life of Miss O’Bierne. Do you know that 
you galloped through the Oarrig demesne in the 
dark?” 

“Did I now?” in a tone of intense surprise. 
“Faix, then, ’twasall Miss O’Bierne’s own fault. 
Whin I seen her going into Carrig, looking so 
terribly queen-like, and so grand, I thought the 
ould times was back, and I lost me head entirely 


254 


BEYOND THE PALE 


and teetotall}^ and I never knew rightly what I 
was doing, till I found myself asleep in Creeshe 
stable this morning, and, bedad,’’ with twink- 
ling eye, ‘‘at first I thought it was the fairies as 
had me!” 

“Oh, you unfortunate creature!” with wither- 
ing scorn. ‘*‘You are never short of an excuse 
for everything — if it was a murder, it would be 
the same.” 

“Bedad, then, it’s the only thing I’m not short 
of. W ill ye pay monow, me darlin’ Miss Dwyer, 
six shilling?” in a coaxing voice, and with his 
head on one side. 

“No, I will not, for you’d go straight into 
Mahony’s and drink it. I’ll give Nannie the 
money. But you may go downstairs, and have 
a bit to eat — if you can eat.” 

“Thank ye. Miss Narcissa, ye were always 
the lady, and may ye be twenty years in heaven 
before the devil knows you’re dead!” 

With which extraordinary valediction, and a 
broad and graceless grin, Mr. Pat Mooney with- 
drew to the lower regions. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 

A BOUND OF VISITS 

A FEW days after the ball, when Geraldine 
had descended from her high estate, and re- 
turned, like Cinderella, to every-day life, she 


BEYOND THE PALE 


255 


rode over to old Carrig to escape from the 
domestic atmosphere, which was oppressive, not 
to say sulphurous. Casey had reappeared, ex- 
tremely glum and “black in himself.” He took 
no notice whatever of Geraldine, nor did he 
allude in any manner to their last merry (?) 
'meeting. He and Tilly were now on cordial 
terms, and agreed most warmly that Mr. Scul- 
ly’s rash permission to Jerry to be present at 
the recent dance was little less than an act of 
madness. 

Yes, Geraldine was thankful to get away into 
the fresh air, and gallop upon the short grass 
and the breezy hillside, that fine February after- 
noon. Just at the bottom of the lane she was 
overtaken by some one riding. It was Denis 
Money, who had been on the lookout for this 
meeting for two days, but who, nevertheless, 
accosted her as if it were a matter of the purest 
accident. 

“None the worse for the ball. Miss O’Bierne?” 
he asked, cheerily. 

“No, although we were nearly upset going 
home, by Paddy Mooney.” 

“Then you must have spoken to him?” 

“Spoken to him! We, or at least Miss Lucy 
Dwyer, not only spoke, but screamed. He gal- 
loped right across the demesne. Luckily, the 
old horse was sober, and avoided the trees. I 
am going up to see Paddy’s uncle now.” 

“And may I come with you?” 

“Yes; but I’m afraid you will find it rather 
dull.” 


256 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘MTot the least. And we will call on my 
friend, Mrs. Shea, and have tea with her. She 
invited me next time I was this way.” 

‘‘Did she, really? What an honor. Katty is 
exclusive, and her favorites are few. See, there 
is the Rath,” pointing with her whip. “It is 
very large— one of the largest in the country — ' 
and extremely well preserved. No one would 
dare to put a spade in it. It is called the ‘fort 
‘of the windy gap.’ Shall we ride up?” 

“Yes, provided you promise me a safe con- 
duct, Miss O’Bierne. No fear, I hope, of awak- 
ening your cavalry regiment? If they were 
aroused it might be rather awkward for me, as 
I don’t as yet speak Irish.” 

“I guarantee your safety on the hill,” she 
answered, ascending it beside him. “You may 
laugh and scoff as much as you like, but these 
Raths are treated as sacred places everywhere 
in Ireland; and in the remote parts, people speak 
of the Danes as if they were here a few years 
ago, and might again descend upon the coast at 
any minute. Most of the people in this barony 
believe firmly in the Danes and the fairies, and 
I’m sure you will think them more than half 
pagan.” 

As she said this they had reached the sum- 
mit of the ascent, and she rode out upon the 
ramparts — a truly beautiful equestrian figure, 
sharply defined against a clear blue sky. 

“Now you can see the ‘whole side of the 
country,’ as they call it. There below is old 
Carrig. The keep has stood two sieges and is 


BEYOND THE PALE « 


very ancient, but the other part was only built 
in the reign of Elizabeth. It won’t last much 
longer.” 

“Can we not go nearer to it?” he asked. 

“Yes, of course; but I have a few visits that 
I must pay first — only two or three; I have not 
time for more this afternoon. Some of the 
former retainers of Carrig live about here, and 
they like me to go and see them.” And as she 
spoke she turned sharply about, and rode by 
some narrow footpaths and through several 
stone gaps, over a fence, to where there was a 
cluster of low-thatched cabins. 

Here they found Paddy Pinafore in waiting, 
merely accompanied by two dogs and a goat. 

“Oh, then, Miss O’Bierne,” he cried, “I saw 
you coming, and I ran down to be ready to give 
a hand with the horses,” instantly standing at 
the head of Dancing Girl. “And so this is Pat 
I Dhu, the fairy! and a great horse entirely. I’m 
real proud to see your honor on the hill,” he 
said, turning to Denis, and surveying him with 
a radiant visage and glowing eyes. 

Denis dismounted with a nod— well he knew 
the true reason of this warm welcome — and, 
throwing the reins to Pat, followed Geraldine 
into a low cabin, where a delicate-looking young 
woman was sitting by the fire, in company with 
two or three children, and no less a person than 
Mrs. Shea. 

“Whether!, Miss O’Bierne, it’s yourself is the 
sight for sore eyes,” cried Mrs. Shea, rising to 
her feet. “And you, sir, I noticed you riding 


258 


. BEYOND THE PALE 


up and down an hour back, and was wondering 
what you were looking for. I’m raal proud to 
see ye.” 

‘‘And how do you find yourself, Mary?” asked 
Geraldine, sitting down by the sick woman and 
taking her thin hand in hers. 

“Well, miss, me chest is better, and I thank 
you, but the childer wor bad with the chin 
cough a while back, but I passed them three 
times under a she ass, and they are finely now, 
glory be to God.” 

“I wish 1 could see you looking better, Mary. 
You take no care of yourself,” said her visitor, 
reproachfully. 

“Faix, I take as much as I’m worth. Miss 
Geraldine.” 

“And is Mike in work now?” 

“He is, praise be; he gets regular employ- 
ment in the avenues at Carrig. Is that the 
young gentleman?” rising and making a feeble 
courtesy to Denis. “The Lord spare you yer 
health, sir.” 

“Have you no land to this cabin?” he asked, 
abruptly. 

“No, sir, barrin’ the potaty field forenenst the 
door.” 

“Och, land indeed!” snorted Mrs. Shea. 
“Bad cess to it for land. Sure, ’tis where the 
old gander broke his neck, striving to pall a 
blade of grass.” 

“I’ve brought you this, Mary,” said Geral- 
dine, unfolding a jacket. “I knitted it with my 
own hands.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


259 


think of that now, Miss O’Bierae!” 

‘‘And think of this, too: that if you don’t 
wear it, and put it on Maggie or Joyce, I shall 
never forgive you. You are to wear it all day 
and every day till the warm weather comes, and 
that won’t be till June next.” 

“And wear it I will, and a thousand million 
thanks to you. Miss O’Bierne, for the honor.” 

“Sure, none of her people ever forgot the 
poor,” broke in Mrs. Shea, indignantly. “And 
the poor don’t forget them.” 

Meanwhile Denis Money sat on the meal chest, 
switching his long riding boots, as he looked and 
listened. 

“Don’t talk of honor, Mary Rogan, when you 
know it is a great pleasure to me to work for 
you; and here are four pair of little socks for 
Maggie and Mike that I knitted, as I know you 
are not able to do much yourself now, and I 
hope they’ll fit. Come here to me, Maggie, till 
I see?” 

Maggie, not a bit shy, ran over and climbed 
upon hei^ lap, while Geraldine measured the 
sturdy little bare foot against the woolen sock. 

“They are just right,” she said, complacently. 

“And what about the shoes?” asked Denis, 
who had now risen and gravely superintended 
the proceeding. 

“Well, then, your honor, the shoes is no great 
shakes, but not too bad ; we are saving them up 
a bit now, for the snow took a heavy turn out of 
them,” said Mrs. Rogan. ' 

“I think those smart socks deserve new shoes,” 


260 


BEYOND THE PALE 


and he reached down and put a sovereign into 
Geraldine’s hand. 

Geraldine reddened as she glanced at it, but 
at once exclaimed, ‘‘Look, Mary! see what Mr. 
Money has given you!” And she held it toward 
her. 

“Oh, sir!” and a color born of surprise and 
pleasure crept into her wan face, two tears 
shone in her eyes, for a moment she was speech- 
less; then at last she said, “Well, may every 
hair in your honor’s head be a candle to light 
you to glory ! Why, this will put boots on him- 
self as well — and badly he wants them. ’Tis 
too good of your honor entirely.” 

“And so Nora Driscoll has got that place, Miss 
O’Bierne,” broke in Mrs. Shea, “and thanks to 
you. She’s a nice, tight, clane-skinried girl, and 
will do ye credit.” 

“Yes, I am just going over to see her now, 
Katty,” rejoined Geraldine, rising. “And, as 
it is getting late, we must wish -you all good- 
day.” 

The next visit was to a cottage where a re- 
markably pretty girl stood at the door, evidently 
awaiting them. 

“How are you, Nora?” asked the young lady. 
“I thought you were in a place.” 

“No, Miss O’Bierne,” she whispered, drop- 
ping a timid' courtesy, “not yet.” 

A smart little wo^an now came to the thresh- 
hold, and said : 

“I’m greatly beholden to you for the elegant 
dress you sent up by Katty Shea, miss. It’s the 


BEYOND THE PALE 


261 


making of her,’’ nodding at her daughter. 
“And she’s going to her situation on Monday, 
if we can borrow the Mooneys’ ass and car.” 

“I hope it will be a good place, and you will 
let me know how you are getting on, Nora. 
But it will never do for you to be so shy — will 
it, Mrs. Driscoll?” 

“Faix, a scullerymaid in a great house has 
soon the shyness scraped av of her, as I well 
know; and Nora would have plenty to say to 
ye, miss, dear, only she’s a bit backward in 
herself before your young gentleman,” and Mrs. 
Driscoll glanced at Money expressively. 

“This is Mr. Money who lives at Carrig, and- 
happened to be on the hill,” explained her visi- 
tor. “No, thank you, I won’t go in now, for 
the evenings are short, and I want to go to see 
old Tim Mooney.” 

“Whisha, then, poor Tim is greatly failed, 
miss. He has made several offers to die, but 
he has not managed it yet, and when he goes 
there will be some dry eyes after him, God help 
him! Well, then. Miss O’Bierne, good-day, 
and the Lord prosper you wherever you go.” 
And, sped with many courtesys. Miss O’Bierne 
and her companion walked on to a long white- 
washed cabin at some distance, followed by 
Paddy leading the horses. 

“I’ve been losin’ me eyesight, watching for 
you, miss,” cried a bunchy old woman, who 
looked as if she wore twenty petticoats and had 
a nutcracker nose and chin. 

“How are you, Mrs. Mooney?” said her visitor. 


262 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“Well, then, I’m nearly distroyed with a 
wicked heartburn that’s just killing me. Won’t 
you step inside?” 

“Yes, in a moment. I’ve something here for 
Tim,” and she went to her saddle to unstrap a 
little parcel. As Denis stood beside her she said 
in a low voice, “She is a horrid old woman. 
There’s nothing the matter with her or her 
niece, but poor old Tim is in a bad way. This 
is some tobacco for him. He has slaved hard 
as a car-driver and carter all his life, and has 
kept his house together, and even saved a few 
pounds; and now; these heartless wretches 
grudge him every moment he lives, and every 
morsel he eats.” And she turned once more to 
the cabin, carrying her little gift. . 

“And how is Tim?’ she asked as she stepped 
inside and saw an old man’s long bent back, 
stooping over the fire, in a hopeless attitude. 

“Oh, then, I wish I was as well, miss, dear! 
Tim, here is Miss O’Bierne come to see you.” 

Tim raised his head and looked slowly round. 
A feeble smile struggled into his wrinkled face 
and lighted up his blue eyes. 

“Then ye are welcome, Miss O’Bierne. Mo 
colleen dhas dhu” (beautiful brown girl). 

“But how are you^ Tim?” drawing her chair 
. near him. 

“Oh, faix, he is well enough. He ates as 
much as all the children put together, the poor 
cratures. ’Tis all he’s good for now,” responded 
Mrs. Mooney, seating herself with an ill used air. 

The old man glanced up at Geraldine with a 


BEYOND THE PALE 


263 


wistful smile, and shook his head as he mut- 
tered, ‘‘I’m in the way, mavourneen, I’m in the 
way. I’m in the way.” 

“Troth and he wouldn’t be in the way a step,” 
said a younger woman, who had just hurried in, 
“if he’d just rouse himself and work he’d be 
well. ’Tis idleness as ails him.” 

“I’m past work, Miss O’Bierne,” addressing 
himself direct to Geraldine. “My work, and 
God knows it was hard enough, is done.” 

Any one looking into the poor old man’s face 
could see that he had had a stroke of paralysis. 
“But you are looking beautiful yourself, Miss 
O’Bierne; there’s nothing like a fair-skinned 
girl; them women as comes from England is 
mostly yaller divils — and I drove a power of 
them in my time.” ♦ 

“He was car-driver at a Killarney hotel,” 
explained Mrs. Mooney to Denis, rather pomp- 
. ously. 

“But I can’t allow you to call my country- 
women yellow divils, Tim,” protested Money, 
with a pleasant smile. “We pride ourselv^es 
upon the complexions of our ladies. I’m En- 
glish, you know.” 

“Well, maybe they were not English, but 
from other parts, sir, for I would not wish to 
hurt your feelings.” 

“Tim, that’s a very uncomfortable chair you 
have there,” exclaimed Geraldine suddenly. 

“ ’Tis hard, indeed; but, sure, it’s the best we 
can do, and it might be worse.” 

“It could not be worse. I’m sure your back 


264 


BEYOND THE PALE 


must ache. I wish I had a nice comfortable one 
to send yon.” 

‘‘Indeed, miss, I know well, if ye had, ’tis 
mpself would be sitting in it this blessed minute. 
Don’t I owe the roof over me, and the chair 
under me, to the O'Biernes? Ay, and I’ve a 
nephew of me own somewhere, rowling in gold 
and carriages, ‘ that never giv’ me the laste 
assistance.” 

“Augh, quit that sort of talk,” said his wife, 
sharply. “What’s the good of it? Sure, miss, 
’tis only an old fairy tale he has made up about 
his brother, who went to England seventy years 
ago and more, and turned his coat, bad luck to 
him.” 

“And what’s the best neWvS with you, mavour- 
neen anthore?” ventured the brow-beaten old 
man, in a timid ke}’'. 

“Ah, don’t be losin’ your breath wid the likes 
of him,” expostulated his wife; who, with her 
niece and three fat, open-mouthed children, filled 
up the best part of the kitchen, and grudged all 
conversation not especially addressed to them- 
selves. 

“It was Tim I came to see, Mrs. Mooney,” 
said Geraldine, with a cold dignity that became 
her well in Denis Money’s eyes. “He is one of 
the old Carrig people, and Thave a great regard 
for him. Have I not, Tim?” And she looked 
iuto his face with a tender glance, for which 
Money would have given his right hand. 
“How old are you, Tim?” 

“I’m too old entirely, asthore. I believe I’m 


BEYOND THE PALE 


265 


in or about eighty-seven years of age. When I 
was a gorsoon I was a helper in the stables in 
Carrig; and oh! but your grandfather was a 
splendid young gentleman, and so free and so 
pleasant. Many’s the morning I brought round 
his hunter. Ay, and we were boys together, 
and many’s a night we stole out dark fowlin’. 
Your granddada and I were about the wan age, 
Miss Geraldine. It seems only the other day 
when Mr. Gerald was born, an’ yourself as it 
were ere yesterday. Well,” with a long sigh, 
“Mr. Brian had a hard life, like meself, and 
put nothing by for a sore foot” (a rainy day). 

“It’s like yer imperence, man, dear, to be 
spaking of yourself in the wan breath with the 
O’Bierne of Carrig,” protested his wife with 
loud indignation. 

“I hear the people that’s in it now are very 
good to the poor,” continued Tim, “and gives 
great employment.” 

“This gentleman is Mr. Money, who lives 
there,” exclaimed Geraldine, precipitately. 

“God bless you, sir,” and he looked very hard 
at him. “I know I’m takin’ a liberty, and her- 
self there will say it’s more greater impidence; 
but you have the two very eyes of me brother 
Peter standing in yer head; augh! but he was 
the handsome boy, when he went down the 
hill.” 

“Now, Tim,” broke in his lady visitor, seeing 
a thunderstorm in Mrs. Mooney’s expression, 
“I’ve brought you some tobacco and a wooden 
pipe, for I know you are always breaking and 


26(3 


BEYOND THE PALE 


losing your little old dhudeens.” And she 
placed her gift in* his hand. 

Tim’s wrinkled visage was instantly illumi- 
nated. A whole pound of tobacco. His dim 
eyes glistened with pleasure. 

“Thank you kindly, miss; it’s many a day 
since I had a smoke,” he faltered, in a broken 
voice. 

“Well, that will keep him quiet for a good bit 
anyhow,” grumbled Mrs. Mooney, adding some- 
thing under her breath about “better spend the 
money on a pound of tay.” 

“Sure, he is full of his fancies these times, 
miss,” chimed in Bridget, the niece. “He has 
ugly drames, he says, and when he lies awake 
of a night he declares that he hears a sort of 
wail going round and round the hills, as it wor 
^the cry of a great grief, and that it’s the Ban- 
shee.” 

“The Lord presarve us, Bridget!” exclaimed 
her aunt, crossing herself devoutly. “ An’ will 
ye not be saying such things, and before Miss 
O’Bierne of all people in the wide world !” 

“Oh, you need not mind me, Mrs. Mooney, I 
am not superstitious.” 

“What about that hare,” suggested Deuis 
Money in a low voice, “and the coach and four 
black horses?” 

“Oh, now, don’t be talking of the death 
coach, sir, av you plase,” said Mrs. Mooney, 
severely. “Well, I suppose we will be losing 
you some day, somehow,” she continued, look- 
ing over at Geraldine. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


267 


‘‘I think there is no doubt of that, Mrs. 
Mooney. We must all die sooner or later.” 

‘‘Oh, Miss O’Bierne asthore, 6ure ye know 
very well it was not that I meant! I mean 
that in course some young gentleman will be 
taking you from us,” and she gave Money a 
quick wink. 

“I must be going, Tim,” she said — ignoring 
this suggestion — rising and standing beside him, 
“and I must try and buy, borrow, or steal a 
chair for you.” * 

“Is your sight good?” asked Denis, as he 
rose to his feet. 

“Very good, yer honor, glory be to God.” 

* “Then I will send you up some papers and 
books. I’m sure you find the days long, sitting 
here.” 

“Ah, sure, Tim can’t read, sir,” put in Mrs. 
Mooney, with an air of great contempt. “He 
never had no laming; but me and me niece here 
will be thankful to you for story books and 
papers.” 

“Then, at any rate,” totally ignoring this 
delicate hint, “I can send you an armchair, 
Tim ; there are lots to spare in Carrig. It shall 
be here the very first thing to-morrow.” 

“Oh, sir, it’s too much for a stranger like 
yourself to be giving the likes of me.” 

“It won’t be strange to you, coming from 
Carrig,” returned the young man, promptly. 

“Sir, when ye have that smile in yer eyes I 
declare to God you might be Peter, the time he 
was courting Judy Shea.” 


268 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Mrs. Mooney glanced at the young man, and 
again winked and tapped her forehead signifi- 
cantly. 

‘‘I see yer all laughing at me,” said Tim, 
‘‘and I suppose I’m getting a bit wake in the 
head; and I humbly ax your pardon, sir, for 
spaking of Peter so free like.” 

“There is nothing to pardon, Tim. On the 
contrary, you have paid me a great compli- 
ment.” 

“Now I must really go, I’m afraid,” said 
Geraldine. “Good-by, Tim; take care of your- 
self.” 

Tim struggled to his feet, the shattered wreck 
of a fine, tall man ; tears stood in his sad old eyes 
as she took his hand, and he exclaimed, “God 
knows if I’ll ever see ye again. I’m in the way 
here,” and lowering his voice, he added, ‘They 
are talking of sending me into the house — but 
plase God I hope I’ll die afore that.” 

“The house! Never, Tim, as long as I’m 
alive,” casting a blazing glance on the two 
women. “I can promise you that — at least.” 

“An’ will ye promise me another thing to the 
back of it?” speaking very eagerly. “Will ye 
promise me that when I’m going the long — 
journey- —ye’ll come and say good-by to me? I’d 
feel aisier if I had one of the family to see me 
off. I was with yer granddada. ” 

“Yes. I promise that, Tim. I will not fail 
you.” 

“Well, then, good-by. Miss O’Bierne, darlin’; 
may God bless you, and the Queen of Heaven 


BEYOND THE PALE 


2G9 


have you in her holy keeping,” and he tottered 
after her to the door. 

‘‘Paddy,” said the girl to her self -constituted 
groom, “we are going down to the Castle now; 
you can come along and bring the horses. Do 
you notice,” she remarked to Denis Honey, 
“how tame and subdued they are with him, 
just like a pair of old sheep. I really believe 
that he has some kind of Pistrogue!” 

“And what may a Pistrogue be?” 

“A charm that subdues animals. At any 
rate, Paddy has some wonderful power over 
them.” 

“The power of kindness, most likely. Talk- 
ing of kindness, what a couple of truly devoted, 
tender-hearted women we have just left!” 

“Wretches!” exclaimed the girl, indignantly. 
“They are counting the hours till the old man 
dies, and look upon him as a burden and ex- 
pense.” 

“Poor old fellow, his days are numbered, that 
is very plain. They won’t have long to wait.” 

“You must not suppose that Mrs. Mooney and 
Bridget are specimens of their class,” she con- 
tinued, gravely. “The whole hill is ashamed of 
them. The Irish peasantry have strong family 
affections, far more so than other nations — far 
more than you cold-blooded English people.” 

“I say, I say. Miss O’Bierne, how do you 
know that we are cold-blooded?” 

(She was thinking of her own mother, who 
had rarely shown her the smallest demonstra- 
tion of tenderness.) 


270 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘^And if an Irishman prospers he shares his 
good fortune with all his kin,” she pursued. 
‘‘When young men and women go a, way from 
here to America, they never forget their own, 
but send for them as soon as they can afford it; 
in that respect, I am sure, they have no equal.” 

“And pray what about Tim Mooney’s rich 
nephew, that is rowling in gold and carriages?” 
asked Denis with a smile of sly triumph. 
“What has he done for his worthy old uncle, 
who is standing, so to speak, between the poor- 
house and the grave? What sort of a specimen 
do you call Ifiimf'" 

She colored somewhat deeply as she answered : 

“I call him the exception that proves the rule 
— -if lie exists ; but sometimes I fancy that poor 
old Tim is not very clear in his mind.” 

“And this rich nephew is a fairy tale! What 
a neighborhood for fairies!” ejaculated young 
Money, as he ran down the hill beside her. “We 
have fairy horses, fairy gold, fairy soldiers, and 
fairy kin.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

OLD CARRIG 

The Castle still presented a sufficiently impos- 
ing exterior from a distance. Old Carrig was 
an ancient, square keep, which had been united 
to an ornate, battlemented, and more modern 


BEYOND THE PALE 


271 


mansion, and the entire building loomed decep- 
tively spacious and habitable as it was ap- 
proached along a rarely- used, grassy road, bor- 
dered with loose stone walls. Nearer the house 
one entered upon a region of solitary ragged 
yews and forlorn laurel bushes, while high bor- 
ders of straggling box and a hoary sun-dial 
hinted at the remains of a pleasure ground. 
From the pleasure ground the building, stripped 
of the glamour lent by distance, stood forth in its 
true colors. It no longer exhibited the dumb 
pathos of a deserted home— an appearance it 
had contrived to sustain for years — it was an 
absolute ruin! Several tall chimney stacks had 
fallen, and lay scattered on the grass, the win- 
dows were either boarded up or open to all the 
winds of heaven, and their shutters and sashes 
had provided many a comfortable blaze for the 
people on the hill. Glancing through one of 
these young Money caught a lamentable view 
of a great room with a fine carved chimney- 
piece ; but the walls were green with damp, and 
the flooring had been stripped away, leaving a 
carpet of stones, rafters, rank nettles, and dead 
leaves. He turned about just in time to see Miss 
O’Bierne run lightly up the hall door steps, pull 
a great bush out of the entrance, and make him 
a Inodk courtesy as she said, ‘‘Mr. Money, let 
me welcome you to old Carrig!” 

The interior was a complete wreck, the whole 
center of the house a mere shell. As they stood 
side by side they gazed upward upon a series of 
doorways, fireplaces, and windows. Not a single 


BEYOND THE PALE 


272 

floor interrupted their view of the rotten and di- 
lapidated rafters. 

‘‘The front stairs are gone, as you see,” re- 
marked the girl. “They were quite a God-send 
to Clorane, the hard winter before last; but the 
back ones are of stone, and perfectly safe. ’ ’ And 
as she spoke, she took hold of her habit and 
rapidly piloted him toward a spiral staircase, 
which eventually brought them out upon a wide 
landing — a landing which displayed horrid 
chasms in its tremulous floor. 

“You need not be the least nervous. I know 
all the good bits,” she called out. “Just keep 
straight on after me.” And she went past sev- 
eral closed doors into a small turret room flagged 
with stone and possessing a fireplace and spacious 
window seats. 

“This is my boudoir,” she announced. “I 
often come here and sit in this corner. I can 
walk over from Racehill in half an hour by the 
fields. I call this home.” 

“I notice that your home is most beauti- 
fully swept,” observed young Money, as he 
removed his cap, and seated himself beside 
her. 

“No dust, no cobwebs — the work of the fairies, 
of course!” 

“No. Paddy Pinafore is my housemaid. ” 

“A pretty housemaid,” 

“He is jack-of-all trades, you see,” now look- 
ing down on Paddy, who was gravely walking 
the horses to and fro before the ruined hall door. 

“What a farce!” and she burst out laughing. 


BEYOND THE PALE 273 

‘‘You sit in this particular window because it 
commands a fine view of Oarrig?” 

“Yes. How clever of you to guess that.” A 
moment’s silence^ and then he continued: 

“Have you thought of what I said to you the 
other night about Carrig?” 

“Do you mean the fairy tale?” vvith a little 
shrug. “It is too early for fairy tales.” 

“And the other evening it was too late! Miss 
G’Bierne, can you be serious for five minutes?” 

“Am I not always serious? I know that I 
am perpetually scolded for looking so grave and 
solemn, otherwise grumpy and sulky.” 

He made a little impatient gesture as he said: 
“Then at least give me your attention for one 
moment.” 

She looked at him smilingly and nodded her 
head. 

“Do you see Mrs. Shea’s cottage up there?” 
was his totally unexpected question. 

“Yes,” slightly raising her brows, “I see it.” 

“And the gate in front of it?” 

“And the gate in front of it,” she repeated, 
with exaggerated emphasis. 

“It was leaning over that self-same gate that 
I first heard of you.” 

“How romantic!” she exclaimed. “AVas it 
the irrepressible little bird who mentioned me?” 
In spite of her mocking air she was trembling, 
and her heart seemed to be actually beating in 
her throat. 

“You are making it very hard for me to tell 
you what I wish to say. Miss O’Bierne,” he re- 


274 


BEYOND THE PALE 


joined, suddenly rising to his feet. ^‘But I mean 
to say it all the same. It was Mrs. Shea who 
spoke of you. I had then been but two days in 
the country. Now I have been four months in 
Ireland, and I love both the country — and you. 
When Mrs. Shea talked of the young girl who 
made her living by horses little did I anticipate 
how desperately anxious I should be to call that 
girl my wife!” 

Geraldine leaned her head still further back 
against the wall and looked up at -him steadily. 
The corners of her sensitive mouth quivered a 
little, her face was very white. 

“Now, I want to know,” he continued slowly, 
“if you care for me — at all? Sometimes I hope 
you do, at others I am absolutely certain that 
you do not. You are so cold, so reserved, so 
impassive, so totally different to any girl I have 
ever come across. Geraldine, answer me.” 

His face was also colorless, his finely-cut feat- 
ures were set with an expression of strong reso- 
lution. She was not looking at him now, her 
eyes were fixed on Carrig with a wistful, ab- 
stracted gaze. 

“You are not even listening to me!” he ex- 
claimed reproachfully. “If you only loved me 
as you love a stick or stone of Carrig how thank- 
ful I should be.” 

“Mr.. Money,” she said, as she turned to him 
quickly, and he saw that her eyes were dim with 
tears, “the other evening I t^^-ould not listen to 
you because I thought you were but half in ear- 
nest; that perhaps you wished to ‘break a coun- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


275 


try heart for pastime ere you went to town.’ I 
have been warned that you are a flirt — that you 
make love and ride away.” 

‘‘I not in earnest? I a flirt?” he repeated, 
towering over her in his wrathful indignation. 
‘‘I never was so much in earnest about anything 
in all my life. As for flirting, it takes two to 
flirt. But you do not care a straw about me; 
that is what you wish to convey.” 

“No,” now rising a.s she spoke. “No one has 
ever wanted me to care for them ever since I 
was born — not one — except the old Miss Dwyers 
and the poor--no, not one soul! You have.” 
Then with a little catch in her breath and sud- 
den drop in her voice she whispered, “I do care 
for 3"ou even more than for Carrig. Is that 
sufficient? Stay” — putting up her hand — “I 
do not show my feelings, but they are there 
all the same. I cannot gush or be demonstra- 
tive like others. It would overwhelm me with 
shame, ay, and stinging self-torture. Even as 
a little child my kisses weie scornfully repulsed. 
The atmosphere of Racehill has nearly frozen 
my heart. But listen, please,” as he was about 
to interrupt, “to what I have to say. You are 
very rich; I am ver}^ poor. Your people are in- 
fluential, popular, respected. I need not describe 
my connections. Yt)ur father and mother will 
never consent to an engagement between us.” 

“They will, they will,” he reiterated vehe- 
mently. “They will be only too glad. My 
father admires you immensely, and I know 
that he likes you. He has said as much.” 


2?6 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Yes, as an acquaintance, perhaps, but not 
as a daughter-in-law. Remember how provin- 
cial — how Irish I am; how little I have seen of 
the world. How I have lived in one obscure 
corner of it for years, and that my chief friends 
are two penniless old ladies, a groom, and a 
cook. My ideas are prim, narrow, and old- 
fashioned — I know they are — and I am not 
amusing; I am not even smart, and socially I 
am beyond the pale. Oh, it would never, never, 
never do.” 

“But it will ever, ever, ever do,” he an- 
swered impetuously. “And you shall never, 
never, never regret it,” and he took her hand 
eagerly in his and would have drawn her to- 
ward him, but he was held back at full arms- 
length, overawed by a pair of dark grave Irish 
eyes. 

“But you love me, Geraldine^ IVe heard it 
from your own lips. And God knows I love, 
you. Then what is it — what stands between 
us?” he demanded. 

“Your father and mother for one thing; and 
my pride for another. It is,” with a melancholy 
smile, “almost the only thing I have inherited. 
I have often and often struggled'and fought with 
it, but it is always stronger than I am. Many a 
sacrifice it has cost me. Many a pleasure it has 
snatched from me.” 

“But how can it trouble you now 9'*^ 

“It forbids me to enter any family where I 
am not gladly welcomed. It tells me distinctly 
that there can be nothing between us — nothing, 


BEYOND THE PALE 


277 


nothing — unless your father and mother receive 
me as a daughter, ” 

“My father and mother and your* family pride 
seem to have it all their own way. Pray where 
do I come in?” he asked, rather sharply. 

“First, of course,” now giving him her hand 
of her own accord. “First now and always, 
whatever may happen. But I will never be 
anything nearer to you than I am now against 
your people’s wishes. I have no one to speak to 
for me” — (what about Garry?) — “so I have to 
tell you myself, that, though I would die for 
you, I will never be your wife unless as Miss 
O’Bierne of Carrig— of Old Carrig if needs be — 
not as Matt Scully’s little riding girl.” 

“You are imagining all sorts of ridiculous im- 
pediments that you will never encounter, Geral- 
dine. You honor me by accepting me.” 

“I have not accepted you yet,” she interrupted 
quickly. 

“No; but I trust you will, though I am not 
fit to tie your shoestrings. You will be as wel- 
come in our family as the sunshine itself. My 
father is about to buy Carrig; it will be his in 
a few days. You cannot refuse to return to 
your own home — the house where you were 
born.” 

And he suddenly stooped his head and kissed 
her hand, which he had never yet released. 
Paddy Pinafore, who was gaping up at the 
wide so-called window, witnessed this fervent 
kiss and burst into a wild peal of mad laughter. 

“My mother shall go herself,” continued 


278 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Denis, ‘‘and fetch you away forever from 
hateful Racehill. ’ ’ 

“Oh, do you really — really think so?’’ and 
she looked up at him with a smile trembling on 
her lips. 

“Of course I do, or I would not say so, my 
colleen dhu.” 

At this moment there was a tremendous crash 
within the ruins — a long, loud, ripping sort of 
sound — which startled the horses so much that 
they nearly broke away from Paddy. 

“What is it?” asked Denis, when the noise 
and its echoes had died away. 

“Only one of the old floors above,” was the 
calm reply. “Two or three of them are loose 
and hanging and flap in that horrible way. I 
am quite accustomed to them.” 

“So I see!” with a smile. “And now, Geral- 
dine, can you not give me a definite answer with- 
out demur, and allow me to say that I took my 
future bride from Old Carrig?” 

Geraldine shook her head emphatically, and 
then added, “My answer will be found in Carrig 
itself. It rests with your own people. Now I 
am afraid I shall have to go. I must be back 
at Racehill before dark, as you know, and it is 
dreadfully late.” And before he could remon- 
strate or detain her she was half-way down- 
stairs. At the foot she paused, and, opening a 
door, called to him, “Look up, and sec^ what 
alarmed 3^ou.” 

He raised his eyes, and beheld the floor of a 
great room hanging loosely from one wall — hav- 


BEYOND THE PALE 279 

ing broken away from three others. The pale 
wall-paper still fluttered in dreary strips, as the 
wind swept through the window frames, and 
the boards gave a weird accompanying creak, 
as Geraldine closed the ^door, saying, ‘‘It will 
be down in the next storm — there . are terrible 
storms in this part of the world — and that is 
why the Rath is called ‘the Fort of the windy 
gap.’ And when the floor falls all the country 
people will come and burn it.” 

‘'How long is it since any one lived here?” he 
asked, as they stood for a moment on the thresh- 
hold of what had been the great dining-room. 

“It is a hundred and fifty years since the fam- 
ily moved, but this house was used as a dower 
house, and then keepers lived here till about 
twenty -five years ago. grandfather was 

going to pull it all down, but it costs nearly 
as much to pull down as to build up.” 

“And you say that the O’Biernes left their luck 
at Old Carrig. Well, I have found mine here.” 

“I hope so,” glancing at him with a shy smile. 
“But you know that it is for your people to de- 
cide.” 

“Then the matter is practically settled, but 
your scruples shall be respected and your pride 
shall have its way.” 

“It seems absurd for me to talk of pride,” she 
exclaimed, pointing with her whip to the ruins 
among which they stood. “Why should I be 
proud? Why should I make conditions? Why 
should I not be humble and meek? I cannot, 
I dare not, say yes. Everything about the 


2S0 


BEYOND THE PALE 


O’Biernes has passed away from them, or 
fallen into decay, as you see. The only thing . 
that still survives and flourishes as robustly as 
ever is their family pride. 

‘‘Here, Paddy,” suddenly calling to the idiot. 
“Bring up the horses.” 

In another moment she was in the saddle, but 
Denis, ere he mounted his most impatient steed, 
paused to place half-a-crown in Paddy’s horny 
palm. 

To his amazement, Paddy hastily ascended 
the steps, waved his long arms wildly above 
his head, and said, “A word wid you. Miss 
O’Bierne and sor. I know it,” and he blinked 
his eyes with extraordinary rapidity and tossed 
back his lint locks. “I know it, and I’m agree- 
able. I give ye both me goodwill — and consint. 
’Twas Money lost the place Carrig to the 
O’Biernes, ’tis Money will give it back to them. 
I’m just as proud this minute as if I was a 
crowned king — as proud as I was of the fine 
bating yer honor give Casey Walshe, ay, and 
prouder; and I’ll drink every sup of this half- 
crown to your long reign and good luck.” 

“Paddy, you are not to get foolish notions into 
your head,” said Geraldine austerely. “And be 
careful how you spend that half-crown.” 

“ Oh, I’ll spend it in grand style. Miss O’Bierne, 
and I’ve a very good notion as — as” — and he 
glanced up significantly at the turret with a 
cunning grin — “as some will be biting their 
nails, and as there will be a wedding at Carrig 
before long.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


281 


No sane person ever attempted to pursue an 
argument with Paddy Pinafore — it was a pro- 
verbial waste of time and breath. So Geraldine 
sharply turned about the head of her fretting, 
impatient mare and rode away down the grass- 
grown avenue. 

‘‘That fellow Paddy,” said Denis, as he can- 
tered up alongside, “is not half as great a fool 
as he looks. It seems to me that he can 
see through a stone wall as well as most peo- 
ple.” 

As the pair rode by Mrs. Shea’s cabin that 
worthy woman, who had evidently been expect- 
ing them, with an imperious wave of her apron 
summoned them to halt. “Look, there. Miss 
O’Bieme and Mr. Money,” she screamed. 
“Come here to me, now. What do ye call 
this sort of work? You’ve never come next or 
nigh me, and me” — turning to him indignantly 
—“that ye knew before ever ye got sight or 
light of her. Come in and hav^e a cup of tay; 
’tis drawed this twenty minutes an’ more.” 

“I must go back to Racehill, Katty. I have 
to be in in time to have the horse made up. 
You know it as well as I do myself. Only for 
that, of course, I should stop.” 

“Oh, musha! indeed I know very well as 
Scully is a terror, especially afther his dinner. 
So I won’t kape ye, but the next time ye are on 
the hill, alannah, ye must not go next or nigh 
any wan but meself ; for poor Katty Shea is not 
to be overlooked.” 

“Very well, Katty, that is a promise.” 


282 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘And the young gentleman can come too, av 
he has a mind.” 

The young gentleman nodded his acceptance, 
and with a farewell wave of her hand to Katty, 
Geraldine gave Dancing Girl her head and gal- 
loped down the boreen. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 

TALKING IT OVER 

“My dear Ju, I want to speak to you most 
particularly,” said Mr. Money, coming suddenly 
into the morning-room, and looking unusually 
excited and perturbed. 

“I know!” she ejaculated, laying down her 
pen, with a gesture of quiet despair. “You 
need not tell me — it’s about Denis. He has 
proposed for that girl. Well, you must never 
hope- for my consent.” 

“Why — why not? I like Miss O’Bierne.” 

“Simply because she gave you a nasty little 
bit of fur and flattered you; oh, you silly An- 
thony!” And she leaned back in her chair and 
contemplated him compassionately. 

“She is handsome, well mannered, of very 
good family — her ancestors lived here,” he 
urged, almost eagerly. 

“I’m perfectly sick of her ancestors! I was 
going to say I wished they were dead. We 
have, at any rate you have, quite as long a 


beyond: the pale 


283 


line, no doubt; and she does not carry her 
pedigree round her neck.” 

“No, she carries it in her face; high descent 
is written there.” 

“My dear Anthony, I declare you are becom- 
ing quite smart. Well, it is a proud, haughty, 
scornful face, in my opinion.” 

“Never mind your opinion,” rejoined her hus- 
band, recklessly. “No, nor mine either. What 
about Denis’s opinion? He is nearly seven-and- 
twenty, why should he not please himself?” 

“He must please us,” she answered, inflexibly. 
“He must please all his friends. He must please 
himself, in the long run. These romantic fancies 
burn up like straw, and go out as quickly. You 
remember Vincent Palliser, and how wildly he 
was in love with the pretty barmaid, and how 
thankful he now is to his mother for coming 
down and taking him away.” 

“Julia!” exclaimed Mr. Money — when he 
called her “Julia” the domestic storm-signal 
was hoisted — “I will not sit here and listen to 
you speaking of Miss O’Bierne in such a manner 
—is she a barmaid?” 

“No, noj” with a soothing gesture, “nor ever 
likely to be ; and a very bad one she would make. 
Her stand-off manners would soon scatter her 
customers. You are about to buy Carrig, are 
you not, my dear?” 

“Yes, lam; in fact, it is practically mine now.” 

“And I believe you wish Denis and his wife 
to make their homQ here? We should be lost 
in this great house.” 


284 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“Yes, we should.” 

“Well, if Denis brings home Miss O’Bierne 
here, I give you due notice that I shall quit,” 
speaking in an angry and excited tone. “You will 
have to find other accommodation for her or me. 
The same house could not contain us. I would 
do much for you, Tony, and for Denis, too; but 
really you must not expect me to do that.” 

“You are infernally prejudiced, ” he exclaimed. 

“Perhaps I am. By-and-by you may have 
reason to call me something else. Take my ad- 
vice, get rid of the girl somehow. Why not offer 
to educate her? To send her to Germany? O ther- 
wise, she will always be a sort of Mordecai at 
our gates. Whatever you do, do not allow your 
own silly partiality to blind you to the true inter- 
ests of Denis. Denis must marry into a family 
that is going up, not one that has gone down. 
And really, Anthony, if he would only see it, 
one pretty, slim, dark-haired girl is much the 
same as another. My dear, susceptible, soft- 
hearted Anthony, you must set your face against 
Jerry O’Bierne.” 

“But I have nothing against her.” 

“What! Not her bringing up — her hideous 
moral atmosphere and surroundings, her not be- 
ing received into decent society?” she demanded, 
crimson with wrath and vehemence. 

“She will be welcomed with open arms once 
she shakes off Scull3^ You forget the ovation 
she received at your ball.” 

“Simply because she was a surprise^ a mo- 
mentary amazement. And do you suppose for 


BEYOND THE PALE 


285 


one second that the Scullys will ever allow her 
to drop them? Why, you will have Matt dining 
here twice a week; either that, or shooting you 
from behind a hedge. Take your choice. If 
Denis must marry, let him marry Lady Flora. 
I know she would accept him.” 

‘Won are going ahead too fast, Ju, much too 
fast.” 

“Pray, when did you hear this detestable 
news?” 

“Just now. Denis spoke to me after break- 
fast, and asked me to tell you, and to talk it 
over with you.” 

“Then you must have given your consent!” 
she exclaimed, turning on him fiercely. ^ 

“No, no. I merely said that I would talk it 
over with you and let him know,” he answered, 
rather timidly. 

“Weil, now you have learned my opinion on 
the subject.” 

“What the dickens am i to say,” he demanded, 
querulously. 

“Say nothing unpleasant. Compromise, tem- 
porise; a young man’s fancy when balked in one 
direction turns to another. And, above all, do 
not act the stern parent of story books, be sym- 
pathetic.” 

“Sympathetic!” he echoed, with great scorn. 

“Yes, and practical. Say you cannot give 
your consent at present; let him have lots of 
rope. Say that you had expected another class 
of daughter-in-law; but that if he is in the same 
mind in two years’ time^ — ” 


286 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Two years’ time,” broke in Mr. Money, and 
lie gave a long whistle. 

“That you will consider the matter seriously. 
Meanwhile a trip to Monte Carlv), I don’t mind 
taking him there myself, and a season in town 
will soon drive this Irish girl out of his head. 
Absence does not make' the heart grow fonder. 
In these days, people are in too great a hurry to 
enjoy the present to spare a second for dwelling 
on the past. I should not advise correspondence 
in the young lady’s interests,” she concluded, 
rising as she spoke. “And you may as well 
mention that I am entirely of your opinion, 
Tony, and be sure you stick to two years’ pro- 
batiod, and are as firm as I am,” she concluded, 
in a tone of easy command. 

“But the girl— it’s deuced hard on the girl,” 
protested Mr. Money, who was walking up and 
down the room with his hands in his pockets. 

“Not at all.. We are acting with the truest 
kindness. We are giving Denis time to reall}^ 
know his own mind. He would tire of her in 
six months. She is not in the least the sort of 
wife to suit him. They have no friends, no as- 
sociations, no taste but hunting in common. I 
suppose you will allow that it is better for him 
to weary of her before than after marriage.” 

And with this unanswerable remark, Mrs. 
Money retired to her own apartment, having 
done all in her power to “talk over” her husband. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


287 


CHAPTER THIRTY-POUR 

THE FAIRY HORSE 

The meet of the foxhounds had been at a 
distant part of the county; the sport poor — 
merely a few short bursts, succeeded by weari- 
some road riding from cover to cover. Conse- 
quently Jerry and Garry were not home till 
after six o’clock; and it was nearly seven by 
the time the former joined the family in the din- 
ing-room„ Tea was over— at least nearly over. 
Tilly (with a candle all to herself) was devour- 
ing hot buttered cake, sandwiched with her 
novelette. Scully and Casey sat with a large 
square spirit decanter and a jug of hot water be- 
tween their tumblers. In front of Geraldine’s 
vacant place was a plate with two or three slices 
of ham, which represented her luncheon, dinner, 
and tea. 

“How late you are!” exclaimed Tilly, vexed 
to be disturbed in the midst of a most exciting 
chapter. “This tea,” handing a slopping cup, 
“is stone cold.” 

“Well, what sort of sport, Jerry?” asked 
Scully (whose face was almost the color of 
the best Christmas beef). 

“Very poor indeed; scent catchy, no run to 
speak of, and it’s freezing again.” 


288 BEYOND THE PALE 

‘‘Bad luck to it! And how did the little bay 
carry you?” 

“.Very well, very temperate; but I think he 
is rather tender on his near fore — anyway on 
landing — ” 

“Gracious me!” interrupted Tilly irritably, 
“must we always have this horrid stable at 
meal times?” She was reading about a mag- 
nificent and aristocratic family, who lived in a 
palace in Park Lane and dined off gold plate. 

There was a silence — a rather unusual sort of 
silence. Jerry felt that Scully and his partner 
were looking at her furtively. An ominous and 
malicious grin lurked about Casey’s moilih. 
Undoubtedly there was something “up,” as 
they * would have described it. 

“I went to see Dancing Girl,” she said, “and 
Peter told me that you had changed her stable. 
Where have you put her? Where is she now?” 

Casey nudged his host and gave a scream of 
laughter, while Scully answered in his most 
truculent key: 

“Where is she now? Eh, as well as I can 
guess, she’s half-way to England.” 

“To England?” she repeated. 

“YeSj my pet. I’ve sold your pet for a tiptop 
price. Colonel Chandos always fancied her, and 
he tempted me with three hundred guineas.” 

“And you have sold her,” suddenly pushing 
back her chair; “sold Dancing Girl?” 

“And to be sure I have. Come, now, none 
of your row,” thumping the table with his fist. 
“Not a word out of you — not one word.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


289 


\ His stentorian bellow was nearly drowned in 
Casey’s shrill peals of laughter. ‘‘Wasn’t she 
mine; didn’t I keep her and feed her, the same 
as I do you; and aren’t you mine, too? Don’t 
say one word.” 

Meanwhile Casey and Tilly looked on wi^ 
keen enjoyment. The scene surpassed the at- 
tractions of the novelette or the tumbler of 
punch (which were both disregarded), while 
they gloated over their common enemy. Jerry 
was as white as a sheet and surprisingly silent. 

After quite an unexpected pause she said : 

“Very well, Mr. Scully, you have given me 
deeds, and you will, I hope, allow me to say one 
or two words.” 

“Go on then ; hurry up, ’ ’ he answered savagely. 

“You have sold my mare, the only creature 
of my own — my pet, as you truly called her. 
Since you have done this without any reference 
tome — and by whose* advice,” looking fixedly 
at Casey, “I know— I declare before you all 
that I will never again ride another horse of 
yours. You know that I have not much to 
keep, and I always keep my promise.” 

‘ ‘ Bravo ! Encore ! Encore ! ” screeched 
Casey, hammering violently on the table. 

“What?” shouted Scully. “Do ye hear her, 
Casey, my boy? Do ye hear that for chat? 
There’s a nice daughter for you! You will 
just do as I order you, you young cat. You 
are under my charge and authority, and, by 
the Book, I’ll find means to make you obey me. 
Yes,” in answer to a look of cool defiance, “you 


290 


BEYOND THE PALE 


may look and you may sneer. I’ll put a bit in 
that mouth of yours that a cliain Pelham was-a 
joke to. You’ll ride Rocket to-morrow or I’ll 
know the reason why.” 

‘‘I will never ride another of your horses,’^ 
^le replied, now at white heat. “Nev^er, as 
long as I live.” 

‘‘Yes, you will, if you are strapped into a 
straight waistcoat and lashed on to the saddle. 
I’ll make you come on your knees begging and 
crying for a mount. I’ll starve your infernal 
pride,” he roared in reply to her glance of scorn. 
“I’ll massacre you, you beggar, you!” 

“For goodness’ sake, governor, don’t make 
such a noise,” cried Tilly, “you’ll be heard in 
the kitchen.” 


“There’s a lot of drink been taken in there 
to-night,” remarked Bridget to Garry, who, 
along with Paddy Pinafore, was sitting over 
the fire. “Two bottles; no less. It’s awful. 
Will ye listen to the yells of Scully, like a mad 
pig.” At this Paddy gave a low, wicked laugh. 

“Maybe it was to put heart in him to tell her 
he had sold the mare to England,” said Garry, 
gloomily. 

“Sold Miss O’Bierne’s mare? Is it the chest- 
nut as she and I reared? Ay, and she paid for 
every sup of milk it swallowed. Ah! yer not in 
earnest?” 

“Yes, I am. She was sent off this morning 
as soon as we left the yard and they had our 
backs turned.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


291 


“May I never!” clasping her hands. 

“And he is telling her now. Do ye hear the 
shouts out of him?” 

“It was Casey put it into his head and urged 
him and tempted him and made the bargain,” 
said Garry bitterly. 

“May he die at the back of a ditch wid his 
tongue hanging out like a dog,” cried Paddy, 
whose face was white and contorted with pas- 
sion. “ ’Tis always that black divil as has a 
hand in every bad action,” and, suddenly seiz- 
ing his stick, he got up, and, without another 
word, hurried out of the kitchen. 

“That chap wilt do Casey some sort of queer 
turn yet,” observed Bridget, as she stood and 
looked after him. “Oh, but me heart is sore 
for that poor child. There, I hear her going up 
to her room now. Goodness help her.” 

“Faix, she will want a good deal of pity these 
times,” said Garry. “Where are ye off to?” 
seeing her tying on her bonnet. 

“Well, then, since ye must know, I’m going 
to confession below at the chapel. Father 
McCarthy is there to-night, and I’ll say a 
‘Hail Mary’ or two, for God knows we are 
badly in want of a few prayers here. And 
when y© go out, Garry, lave the door on the 
latch.” 

Geraldine for once found no comfort in her 
own retreat. She felt that she must go forth 
where she coiild walk and think. The garden? 
No, she hated the long, damp, dismal walks and 
the weird, suggestive shadows thrown by the 


292 BEYOND THE PALE 

moon. Her spirit was roused; her heart was 
sore; her cup was full. She would endure no 
more. She would at least go where she could 
walk far and fast, clear her mind from these 
hateful surroundings, and come to some final 
resolve. 

In a few moments she had put on her hat, 
jacket, and boots, taken her gloves, and hurried 
down to the kitchen. Bridget was not there 
— only Hannah, crouched over the fire. She 
glanced up at Geraldine. But she had no mind 
to talk to Hannah, who was not her confidante, 
and as she passed quickly out into the yard 
Hannah said to herself, “It’s^ just one of Miss 
Jerry’s queer starts; what is she up to now?” 

From the landing window a patient watcher, 
Casey, descried her. He had been waiting there 
eagerly for some time, for he had felt certain, 
from her expression of pale rebellion, that Jerry 
would take an unusual step. She would pos- 
sibly run away, and to whom? He stole down- 
stairs, followed her up the avenue at a respect-* 
ful distance, ay, and out upon the road. Yes, 
as he expected, she was going to Creeshe, and 
at ten o’clock at night. 

As Geraldine walked on rapidly, in a kind of 
mental fever, with a heart ready to burst, she 
had told herself that for once she would act. 
She would go to Creeshe. It was but two 
miles; the night was fine, there was a full 
moon; it would rise presently, there was its 
rim peeping cautiously over the hill; she need 
have no fear, Casey was at home. (Was he?) 


293 


BEYOND THE PALE 

Miss Dwyer would advise her. She could not 
return to Racehill. No, life there was horri- 
ble; death could hold no greater terrors. And 
Denis? If Denis’s mother came to fetch her — 
it would be from Creeshe. If not — if that happy 
dream was never to be realized — Miss Narcissa 
would get her a situation ; she would be no bur- 
den to them, she would earn her bread. Was 
she not earning it now? Her bitter bread, 
watered with tears. Somewhere she had heard 
that at eighteen a girl is of legal age. She would 
be nineteen in a month. If Scully did hunt her 
down, surely some one would protect her, and 
save her from him and Casey. 

She had walked a mile — an Irish mile; the 
moon had now risen, and if she had turned her 
head she could not have failed to have seen 
Casey following her stealthily, creeping along 
on the grass behind her in order to deaden the 
sound of his footsteps. Suddenly there was a 
sound, distinctly audible, on the freezing road, 
the sharp trot of a horse, the rumble of wheels. 
A high dog-cart went by, and then abruptly 
stopped. 

In it was Denis Money —alone. He was driv- 
ing Black Pat, all flecked with foam, and looking 
like a piebald. 

“Geraldine,” he exclaimed, reining up with 
difficulty. “What in the world brings you out 
on the road at this hour?” 

And as he spoke he jumped down, still hold- 
ing the reins, and leading Black Pat as he 
walked beside her. 


294 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“Trouble,” she answered, looking at him 
steadily. “And you?” 

“Trouble, also, I am sorry to say. I could 
not rest indoors; riding is lonely work; I wanted 
a bit of excitement, and I told them to put Pat 
in harness. Not one of the grooms would come 
with me. His rearings and rushes at first 
terrified them; besides, he is a fairy horse; 
to have him out at night is fatal. He is 
going as quietly as a lamb now, but here I 
am alone.” 

“I can guess your trouble, Denis,” she said. 
“I’m afraid it’s about me; in fact, I’m sure it 
is about me,” keeping her voice steady by a 
mighty effort. 

He nodded his head in slow affirmation as he 
answered — 

‘ ‘ I spoke to my father this morning, and. told 
him what I wished and what you said. He was 
very kind, and declared that he liked you in\- 
mensely and all that, but before there was any 
engagement, I must wait two years. He thinks 
I don’t know my own mind.” 

“And do you not?” and she looked up at him 
gravely. 

“Geraldine, can you ask? I nearer dreamed 
of his not saying yes at once. He thinks I am 
too young to settle down — too unstable.” 

“No, no. It is scarcely that, Denis. It is 
T who am the obstacle to his consent. Now, I 
withdraw mine.” 

“Nonsense! It will all come right; however, 
we will talk this over presently. But first tell 


BEYOND THE PALE 


295 


me what is your trouble?” putting his hand 
upon her arm. 

In a few fierce, forcible words,' the sale of 
“Dancing Girl,” the recent scene with Scully, 
his threats, were placed vividly before him. 

“What a scoundrel!” he ejaculated. 

“And I am going over to Creeshe now. I 
cannot — cannot endure him an}^ longer.” As 
she concluded she drew a long, low breath. 

“I've often wondered why you did not live at 
Creeshe — run away from him years ago.” 

“Simply because the two old ladies can scarcely 
exist as it is, without taking me in. If I could 
have had the use of my small income it would 
have been another matter, and quite an addition 
to theirs; but you see Mr. Scully keeps it. I 
have nothing. I cannot earn money except by 
needlework, and, at the most, that would bring 
in but a few shillings a week. I would live on 
bread and milk, and be thankful to have it; but 
the Miss Pwyers would hate to see it — would 
pinch themselves. No, I’ve often been sorely 
tempted, and have never yielded, but to-night 
was the last straw.” 

“Geraldine, listen to me. I have some money 
of my own, about five hundred a year. Let us get 
married at once. Say next week, from Creeshe. 
I am sure Miss Dwyer will back me up.” 

“No, Denis. I would do anything for you, 
but not that. I am, as I have told you, very 
proud — prouder than your father and mother. 
I shall never marry you until they ask me to 
be your wife.” 


296 


BEYOND. THE PALE 


“And so they shall; but, I say, look here, 
the short cut to Creeshe is closed and the gate 
locked.” 

“Yes, so I see,” in genuine dismay. 

“It is six miles by road from here. I dare 
not drive you round; but I’ll tell you what I 
will do, take you back to Racehill, only for to- 
night. It’s but a mile. You can get. in, I. 
know, through the kitchen, and early to-mor- 
row I will have another interview with my 
father, and if he still talks of two years when 
he hears of the sort of interval you will be com- 
pelled to spend — we shall be married at once.” 

“No. We shall never be married at all!’' 

“And it’s just as well, Geraldine,” coolly ig- 
noring her reply, “that I overtook you when I 
did. I saw a man dogging you all the way 
down the road. I was driving too fast to recog- 
nize him ; but he was something the cut of Casey 
Walshe.” 

“Oh, impossible,” with a little sh^idder. “I 
left him in the dining-room at Racehill.” 

“Now get in. Pat is behaving wonderfully 
well, is he not? And only twice had tlie har- 
ness on him. Something compelled me to come 
out to-night, and how glad I am that I yielded 
to the impulse.” 

“Yes, although we had nothing to exchange 
but bad news.” 

“When things come to the worst they mend, 
‘a shuillish machree,’” he said, as he seated 
himself beside her. “It was a great piece of 
good — ” As the words left his lips, there was 


BEYOND THE PALE ^97 

a flash and a loud report from behind a tree. 
The ballet grazed Black Pat’s neck, who, with 
a shrill scream of pain, wheeled sharply about, 
all but capsizing the dog-cart, and then bolted, 
like a creature possessed. 

While Casey Walshe turned his_ head to follow 
the desperate runaway, he said aloud : 

‘‘A pleasant drive to ye both. I think that 
will about settle yer hash.” 

“And this will settle yours,” shouted Paddy 
Pinafore, bringing down the full weight of his 
loaded stick upon the back of Casey’s skull. 


CHA.PTER THIRTY-FIVE 

SOMETHING IN THE GRASS 

Casey Walshe’s amiable object to wound 
and terrify the horse was carried out with a 
success that does not often erown far more 
virtuous intentions. 

Black Pat, frantic with fear and pain, nearly 
thoroughbred, in first-rate hard condition, with 
a light cart at his heels, literally raced through 
the country like the fairy horse he. was supposed 
to be. Denis Money was a capital whip and a 
man of the coolest pluck. He was not terrified 
for himself, but Geraldine. However, self-con- 
trol was .the habit of her life, and she remained 
perfectly still, her feet against the footboard, 
her hands tightly clasped. The crash might 
come at any moment. No; they still flew 


298 


BEYOND THE PALE 


along the white moonlit road, with not a 
sound to be heard but the rapid hoof- strokes and 
the crowing of some misguided cock. (In Ire- 
land it is considered a most unlucky sign when 
a cock crows before midnight.) Denis made no 
foolish attempt to pull in the frenzied animal; 
he was beyond that. He simply concentrated 
all his energies and all his skill in steering him 
round corners. Oh, what sickening shaves! 
Down hills the cart swept, bumping high off the 
road, or rocking violently from side to side. The 
very ground seemed to shake. Familiar places 
flew past, a few cottages, a chapel, a forge. 
Some men standing outside a public- house saw 
the black horse flash by and crossed themselves 
devoutly. 

For about four miles Pat kept up this trul}^ 
headlong pace, and then he slackened a thought. 
Denis spoke to him gently and endeavored to 
get a pull at him, the muscles in his strong 
arms standing out like iron bands. The gallop 
gradually, gradually subsided to a canter, the 
canter to a trot. 

“Thank God exclaimed Denis, when he had 
once more got him in hand. “That was a nar- 
row escape. Were you frightened?’’ 

“In a way I was. I felt certain we should be 
killed. But I would not have been afraid to die 
with you, Denis.” 

“Mdny, many long years, darling, may we 
live to spend together.” 

“That was Casey Walshe’s doing,” she ob- 
served, after a silence. “I saw him distinctly 


BEYOND THE PALE 


299 


as the horse plunged round. The moon shone 
full upon his face. It wore such a malicious 
grin. He thought we would both be killed.” 

“Two birds with one stone; and what a dis- 
appointment for him, the murderous, sneaking 
rascal!” As he spoke they were now trotting 
rapidly back toward Racehill. “I should like to 
summon him, and get him tried for attempted 
murder.” 

“I don’t think- he meant to hit us, only the 
horse.” 

“Only the horse! It nearly answered as 
well.” 

“He hates us both; you, if anything, the 
most.” 

“I really feel quite honored. How I should 
like him to get a couple of years’ hard labor. 
But it can’t be done.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because of all the explanations we would 
have to make — why were we driving together' 
at eleven o’clock at night.” 

“Yes, of course; and I never thought of that; 
why, indeed?” 

“Because we are going to be married, and are 
settling our affairs. Hullo! Hullo!” as Pat 
made a .violent shy and was about to start off 
again. “What ails the brute? Is he there still? 
Isn’t that the very tree?” 

“Oh, Denis, there’s something lying close to 
the road, in the grass,” she said. “It looks ^-it 
looks like a dead body,” she added, in a scared 
whisper. 


300 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Nonsense!” pulling up. “You don’t mean 
to say — ” he paused. She was trembling ex- 
cessively. “Never mind, it’s all right, only a 
drunken man, most likely. I’ll get down; but 
what shall I do with Pat? I am afraid to leave 
him.” 

“I can hold him,” putting her hands on the 
reins. 

“No, on no account; he would be safe to bolt 
again. Here’s a strap. I’ll lead him on, and 
fasten him up to this gate.” 

In a very short time Pat was firmly secured 
to the gate post, and Denis ran back along the 
road about thirty yards. Sure enough a man 
was lying there prone on his face, his arms 
stretched out, his hat off, his head beaten in — 
a shocking spectacle. 

“Don’t come here, Geraldine, don’t!” he 
shouted peremptorily. “Keep away. Keep 
back.” And even in the moonlight his face 
looked white and startled. 

No; it was no sight for a woman. He turned 
the body over very gently ; it was quite warm. 
Nay, the man was still alive, and the savagely 
battered face was that of Casey Walshe. He 
groaned as he was disturbed, and slowly opened 
his eyes. Stooping over him in the moonlight 
he instantly recognized his enemy. . A fright- 
ful expression contorted his features, a flash 
of expiring life shone in his glance, as, with an 
oath, he made one frantic effort and snatched 
Money’s white silk scarf from his neck. It 
was the last movement. He fell back with it 


BEYOND THE PALE 


301 


grasped in his fierce dead clutch. A cap and 
revolver lay near him. Apparently both they 
and he had been flung with equal scorn over the 
low hedge by Casey’s strong-armed foe. 

What was to be done? Denis considered for 
a moment. The police station was about half a 
mile the other side of Racehill gate. He would 
drive Casey there and then go for a doctor. 
There might be life in him yet. 

But Geraldine must not come near that truly 
hideous sight — a sight that he felt would rise 
before him in his dreams, and even haunt his 
waking hours. 

He joined her hastily and said, ‘‘Geraldine, 
would you very much mind walking back alone 
from here?” 

“Xo,” rather doubtfully. “No, I think not.” 

“Because I’m going to drive Casey Walshe to 
the nearest house — the police barracks at the 
crossroads. I’ll see you to-morrow morning. I 
shall come down to Racehill immediately after 
I have had a good talk with my father.” 

“Can I not help you in some way? At least 
I can hold Black Pat.’-’ 

“No, no. I can manage all by myself. I’d 
much rather you did not wait. I can easily lift 
Casey. He is not heavy.” 

“Do you think he has been murdered? Is he 
dead?” she asked, in an awestruck key. 

“Yes, I’m afraid he is, or at any rate dying.” 

“How fearful! Can I not do something for 
him?” 

“Yes — do not delay here. You must hurry 


30 ^ 


BEYOND THE PALE 


home. I shall keep you in sight to the gate. 
I’ll drive very slowly.” 

Geraldine started off, almost running. Once 
she ventured to look back, and shuddered as she 
looked. The dog-cart was following at a fu- 
nereal pace, and there was something in it beside 
Denis— some vague object, with its back propped 
against the seat, covered up with a fur rug. 
Then she ran in earnest. . ^ 

The kitchen door, luckily for Geraldine, was 
not yet locked. Old Bridget was up late iron- 
ing. It was nearly twelve o’clock when Miss 
O’Bierne raised the latch and entered, gasping 
for breath. 

‘‘Save us and send us! What’s this? Where ^ 
have you been to. Miss Jerry, and looking own 
sister to a ghost?” 

“I’ve been for a — a — walk,” she panted hys- 
terically. 

“A pretty hour to be taking the air! What 
ails ye, child? Ye look so pinched and perished 
with cold. Sit down, then, alannah, till I get 
you a sup of hot milk. ’Tis small blame ye 
went out after tay. The Lord knows this is 
no house for your father’s daughter. There’s 
Scully dead drunk — I never saw him worse; 
and Tilly sitting up in the drawing-room with 
a telegraph clerk from the station.” Receiving 
no reply, she added, “I know all about every- 
thing, and I can see the tongue is just frozen in 
your head. Go up to bed now, and I’ll be afther 
ye directly with a cup of warm milk. I suppose 
ye saw nothing of Casey,” she continued. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


303 


No answer ‘beyond a look of pale horror. 
“Well, if he isn’t here soon he may sleep 


out.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 

AS IMPERIOUS AS HER GRANDFATHER 

It was hours before Geraldine could sleep; her 
recent experience was ever before her, an irre- 
sistible horrible nightmare. What events had 
been compressed into one evening! Her quarrel 
with Scully, the runaway, the murder. When 
she recalled that prone figure on the grass her 
heart beat so fast that it almost choked her. 
Her thoughts were so feverish they would not 
suffer her to rest. 

At eight o’clock in the morning Biddy opened 
the door and peeped in. “The child was fast — 
well, she would let her sleep it out for wance,” 
she said to herself, as she withdrew to prepare 
breakfast. 

It was eleven o’clock before Geraldine awoke, 
with a start, and found Bridget standing in her 
room. 

“Miss Geraldine, dear. Here’s an awful thing 
has happened,” setting down a groat caiT of 
water as she spoke. “Young Mr. Money, yer 
know—” 

“Yes,” now quite wide awake and springing 
up in bed. 

“He is afther murdering Casey Walshe.” 


304 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Nonsense, Bridget,” she exclaimed, turning 
very pale as the hideous memory of the previous 
night came back to her. 

“ ’Tis no nonsense, but gospel truth — as sure 
as I am standing here.” 

“ What do you mean? Don’t talk riddles,” 
said the girl, now tossing back her two heavy 
plaits and jumping out of bed. 

“I mean this, that he took him to the polis 
himself as bold as brass — took the man there 
stone dead, with his head just battered to a 
pulp. There was a nerve for ye! But young 
Money had no rale cuteness nor wisdom what- 
ever; for sure wasn’t his own silk muffler in the 
grip of the corpse, and sorra wan of them able 
to stir it.” 

“Yes,” seizing a dressing gown and dragging 
it on. “What else?” 

“What else! I hear as old Mr. Money and 
his wife is just tearing wild, but the polis have 
the young one snug; sure every wan knows 
there was always bad blood between him and 
Casey, it’s not the first battering he give that 
blackguard. But I’m sorry for his own sake 
as he killed him all out; for, bedad, he is bound 
to give his own good life in exchange for a rare 
bad wan.” 

“Where is Mr. Money?” asked Geraldine. 

“Don’t I tell ye the polis has him tight and 
fast in the barracks at the cross. He will be 
brought up before Lord Scariff and Mr. Hare 
when the coroner comes. The inquest is to be 
held there bey ant, at three o’clock.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


305 


‘‘He is as innocent as you are, Bridget,” said 
Geraldine, steadily. 

“The Lord send it. All the same. Miss Jerry, 
it looks as black as a bag, and Thady Curran is 
letting out now, as he overheard him threaten- 
ing Casey by the river, and saying, ‘Next time 
I catch you it will be a case for the coroner’ — 
and, begor, so it is, ye see!” 

“I was driving with him last night.” 

“Oh, Miss Jerry, ye wor not.” 

“Yes, I was going away to Creeshe; if you 
had been in the kitchen I would have told you. 
Mr. Money overtook me on the road. He was 
driving Black Pat, and he gave me a lift.” 

“There ye are, ye see! How well I knew that 
baste would work a spell on some wan yet. And 
what call had ye to be driving out with a fairy 
horse and a young man at them hours of the 
night? Sure, if it was to be known, your char- 
acter would be no better nor Tilly’s. What 
ailed ye at all, at all. ’ ’ 

“I had had a quarrel with Mr. Scully. I was 
wretched. I was going away— going for good. 
Mr. Money persuaded me ’to return because it 
was so late and the iron gate was locked. Some 
one fired at us from behind a tree and the horse 
bolted. He went miles. , Coming back after- 
ward, we saw a body lying just at the very 
place where the shot was fired. Mr. Money got 
down to look. It was Casey, murdered by some 
one, or nearly murdered. He lifted him into the 
cart to take him to the nearest bouse, which was 
t lie police barracks, and I ran home, and that is all. ” 


306 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘All ! I tell you young Money will be hanged, 
ev^ery wan says so. Sure wasn’t his gloves cov- 
ered with the man’s blood. How is he to clear 
himself?” 

“I will clear him, of course. I can swear that 
he did not do it. I can prove his innocence.” 

“And a nice innocent name you will get for 
your trouble. Every wan will say you are a 
piece with Tilly. Oh, my heart,” clapping her 
hands together, “it’s just his life against your 
good name.” 

“And I needn’t tell you that it shall be his 
life,” looking steadily at Bridget. After a dead 
silence she said, “I know nothing about inquests. ” 

“ISTo, nor won’t go near one if I can stand in 
your way.” 

“Where is Mr. Scully?” 

“He has got a very heavy turn and is in bed, 
and likely to stay there for a while.” 

“And Tilly? Where is Tilly all this time?” 

“Oh, she went off an hour ago to the town in 
the tax cart, awfully upset, crying and bawling 
and carrying on; for she was mortal sure they’d 
bring the body here . for the laying out and fu- 
neral. She’s gone to Miss Wegg,the tobacconist, 
and sorra a foot she’ll put inside the place till it’s 
all over. The country is in an uproar, I can tell 
ye, an’ people swarming over the roads and round 
the barracks like bees.” 

“Well, Bridget, I want to send a note to the 
Miss Dwyers. Will you get a messenger, and 
go away, for I am about to dress?” 

Bridget descended heavily, talking all the 


BEYOND THE PALE 


^07 


time to herself. ‘‘The like of that now! Well, 
the Miss Dwyers will hold her back from mak- 
ing herself the talk of the world, and maybe 
getting put in the papers. Arra, there was 
always ill-luck with that Casey! And he 
couldn’t even die in his bed, like anny wan else, 
but must bring out this terrible trouble and ex- 
posure. I’ll get wan of Peter’s boys, and he’ll 
run to Creeshe as fast as the light. The sooner 
they know the better.” 

Meanwhile Miss Jerry dressed quickly. As 
she twisted up the thick coils of her hair she 
surveyed her white face, her great eyes, with 
dark circles round them. Even to herself, she 
looked so strange that she was struck by her 
reflection in the glass. 

Her courage, however, rose with occasion; 
her lips were firmly set, her mind fully resolved. 
She would consult Garry, and get all particulars 
from him, and she would attend as witness at 
the inquest, accompanied by Bridget. She must 
write a line to Denis and a letter to the Miss 
Dwyers. 

In half an hour’s time she was downstairs 
with the two notes in her hand. It was a mis- 
erable day, raining occasionally, with a high 
wind that lashed the old trees in the pleasure 
ground wildly to and fro, and shook the frail 
window-sashes. She opened the door of the 
dining-room. Yes, her breakfast was laid there 
— one solitary cup. Since the last meal how the 
household had been dispersed ! What a smell 
of tobacco and whisky!. How dismal— how 


308 


BEYOND THE PALE 


funereal the darli flock paper looked! There 
was Tilly’s novelette tossed down; there were 
Casey’s green carpet slippers standing in their 
special corner. She shuddered. No, she could 
never, never eat another morsel in that horrible 
room. She closed the door and went into the 
kitchen, where she found Bridget and a ragged 
messenger awaiting" her. 

“Here is the note, Micky,” she said, “and 
you are to run the whole way like a good boy 
and bring me an answer from Miss Dwyer as 
quickly as ever you can, and here's your six- 
pence. Bridget, give him a farl of bread — and 
be off,” and she herself took him to the back 
door, and watched his little bare legs scudding 
away up the yard through the rain. 

“Garry,” she called out authoritatively. 

Garry came running. He looked unusually 
serious, and was wearing his Sunday clothes. 

“Garry,” she said, “I was with Mr. Money 
last night.” 

“Indeed, so I hear, miss,” very stiffly; “and 
the Lord stand between you and harm.” 

“Here is a note for him. The police* may 
read it, if they wish. It’s to say that I will give 
evidence.” 

“Yes, miss. Ye will have to do that, av 
course,” glancing contemptuously at Bridget. 
“Women has no sense; and she’d sooner see that 
fine young man hanged than for you to put your 
foot inside a court. But it’s a terribly nasty 
business all round. There’s no denying that.” 

“And there’s no suspicion of any one else.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


309 


‘‘Sorra a hate.” 

“Bridget will come with me, and we will be 
there at the barracks at whatever hour they fix. 
Take a horse, Garry, take Rocket, and gallop 
— gallop fast.” 

“Well, faix. Miss Jerry, this is new come to 
ye,”, cried Bridget, “commanding every wan 
here and there, as imparious as your grand- 
father; ordering Garry out on the best horse 
galloping; ordering foot-messengers to run like 
the wind; ordering me up to the court. I never 
could do it, and face the judge and the jury and 
the cap.” 

“See there, woman, don’t be talking nonsense. 
It’ll be only held in the room beyaht. J ust a 
couple of magistrates, the clerk, the doctor, the 
coroner, and a jury of the neighbors, and Mr. 
Money’s friends in coorse; and of coorse they 
bid to know Miss O’Bierne can clear him, and 
she bid to spake, there’s no option whatsom- 
ever,” and he walked away, calling out to Peter 
to “hurry with that horse.” 

“And now ye must have your breakfast, Miss 
Geraldine, or more betoken it’s nearer yer 
dinner.” 

“Yes, but not in the dining-rootn, Bridgy; 
anywhere but there.” 

“Faix, an’ I don’t wonder. You must ate 
something to -put the spirit in ye, though indeed 
I can’t say as that was ever wake wid you, or 
wanting in any O’Bierne.” 


310 


BEYOND THE PALE 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 
‘‘to-morrow!” 

The inquest was held in a room in the police 
barracks. Lord Scariff, Mr. Hare, the doctor, 
coroner, and a solicitor were present. At the 
same wooden table the prisoner Denis also sat, 
with two burly constables behind him. The ap- 
proach was crow ded, although it was a miserable 
day; a cold rain and high wind searched keenly 
for the thinly clad. There was a sudden move 
among the throng, a sensation, and a prolonged 
murmur as Miss O’Bierne appeared, closely fol- 
lowed by old Biddy Shea, who looked as if she 
was going to capital punishment, and had guilt 
and terror depicted in every line of her white 
face. 

Miss O’Bierne, though pale, carried herself 
with an air of great composure. Her arrival 
was somewhat tardy, and every eye was fast 
ened on her, as she threaded her way through 
the crowd, who respectfully fell back and made 
room for her to pass; and it was whispered from 
one to another that “she had come to clear him,” 
while one or two, as venturesome as they were 
imaginative, added that “her testimony was to 
be the price of Carrig.” The ordeal was not 
nearly as trying as Geraldine had anticipated. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


311 


Lord Scariff, Mr. Hare, and the coroner (a hard 
man to hounds) were no strangers. She was 
duly sworn, and gave her evidence with aston- 
ishing coolness and self-possession. 

Yes, she had been with Mr. Money the pre- 
vious night. Between the hours of ten and 
twelve? Yes. When the body had been found 
it was she who first had noticed it and drawn 
Mr. Money’s attention to it. She understood 
that Casey Walshe was not then dead; but Mr. 
Money had requested her not to — to approach. 

“Faix, and no wonder,” muttered a gruff 
voice from among the jurors. 

In brief. Miss O’Bierne’s evidence was so con- 
clusive and distinct that Mr. Denis Money was 
immediately acquitted, and a verdict brought in 
of ‘‘Murder against some person or persons un- 
known.” 

Geraldine made great haste to escape from 
the room. There seemed to her excited brain 
something in its atmosphere that savored of 
tragedy and sudden death. She had studiously 
kept her eyes averted from the prisoner as she 
gave her evidence; she could not endure to see 
him sitting there between two constables; but 
ere she left she looked full at Denis — a look that 
perhaps told a tale. 

The instant she had quitted the court she was 
caught by the sergeant’s wife, who said, “Miss, 
dear, there’s Mrs. Money within In my room, 
taking on awful, and she bid me bring you at 
wance. She wants to spake to ye.” 

There, indeed, in Mrs. Conlan’s little bedroom. 


312 


BEYOND THE PALE 


sitting on a rush chair, in floods of tears, was 
Mrs. Money. Nothing Napoleonic here; all 
ambition, all dignity, all objection to Geraldine 
completely extinguished, and her face buried in 
a patchwork quilt. As they entered, she rose 
up, with a fresh burst of tears, and sobbed 
out, ‘‘Miss O’Bierne — Geraldine, only for you — 
only for you,” and she sat down again, chok- 
ing with emotion. 

This woman, who had led what is called the 
“sheltered life,” had been OYerwhelmed at being 
seized, as it were, suddenly by some grim figure, 
and shown what was liieant by the terrors of the 
law, brought within measurable distance of a 
hideous murder, a family disgrace, an ignomini- 
ous death. The ready hand of her own imagi- 
nation had painted in the picture. Twelve hours 
had added years to her life; her face looked 
worn, wrinkled, weak; her hair was disheveled, 
her eyes red with weeping, her usually trim 
toilet was slovenly. And this girl had lifted 
the load — dispersed the horror. 

“My dear,” she gasped, “how can we ever 
thank you?” 

“It was a mere accident my being with him— 
a fortunate accident as it has happened.” 

“And why were you with him?” 

‘T did not go out to meet him, Mrs. Money, 
you may be sure,” she answered haughtily. 

“Yes, my dear, I am sure,” she responded, 
very meekly. “But tell me more — tell me alL” 
And, thus adjured, Geraldine told her all. 

“I shall never forget what I suffered last night 


BEYOND THE PALE 


313 


when the constable came and told us of the mur- 
der; the hours — it seemed years — of anguish I 
spent, for things^ looked so black, and Denis has 
such a hasty temper, and I knew he could not 
endure that man. I have been greatly to blame, 
and I hope you will forgive me, Geraldine. It 
was I who was against Denis and you, not Mr. 
Money. I always wanted Denis to marry an- 
other girl; I don’t now. J’orgive me, dear, and 
let me take you home ; it will be a proof that 
you will be friends with, me, I hope, always. 
Yes, come with me now, at once, to what will 
be your home, won’t you?” And she drew her 
down to her and kissed her. ‘‘You cannot re- 
fuse, can you?” 

“No, Mrs. Money, you are very kind.” 

“Miss O’Bierne, here’s some one axing to see 
you,” and Mrs. Conlan, without further pream- 
ble, ushered in Katty Shea. She was wet, and 
wore her pilot jacket turned up over her ears 
and a little red handkerchief tied over her head. 
In her hand she carried a venerable cotton um- 
brella, which she was vainly endeavoring to 
close. 

“There, bad scran to ye!” she exclaimed an- 
grily. ' “You’ve been inside out three times in 
five minutes. The wind is raging like a lion. 
Oh, Miss O’Bierne, dear!” — not taking the 
slightest notice of her companion — “I hear as 
you have got him off. The darlin’ young gen- 
tleman. But you bid to come along wid me 
this very blessed minute to old Tim Mooney up 
the hill.” 


314 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Impossible, my good woman,” expostulated 
Mrs. Mone3L “How could you ask the young 
lad}" in such weather? I really wonder at you !” 

“The young lad}" will come, ma’am,” replied 
Katty, with great determination. ‘^Miss, dear, 
the old man is just on the last, and his breath 
won’t lave him till he sees you. He has been 
calling for ye this whole day; and, what with 
the tearing of the storm, and the news of the 
murder, not wan of them had the spunk to come 
and fetch ye except .meself, and, faix, I was 
nearly blown to tatthers coming down the long 
boreen, and I’ll not decave ye, the whin bushes 
is flat, and sticks flying, and the air strong enough 
to carry a stone wall.” 

“You won’t think of going,” said Mrs. Money 
impressively. 

“Oh, yes, I must. I’ve known this old man 
since I was a small child, and he thinks a great 
deal of me.” 

“And sure, every wan does that,” broke in 
Katty. 

“Then couldn’t you take the brougham,” 
urged Mrs. Money. 

A loud, shrill laugh from Katty. “The 
brougham! The brougham would look well 
upon the side of Clorane Hill. Why, it would 
be blown into the next parish. And sure there’s 
no road — an ass’s car has the divil’s own work 
to get there at any time— forby to-day.” 

“We can go across the fields,” said Geraldine. 
Then turning to Katty, “I am quite read}’ to 
start now. Come along.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


315 


‘‘And when are you coming to us? - When am 
I to fetch you? What am I to say to Denis?” 
demanded Mrs. Money, with breathless anxiety. 

. Seeing the girl hesitate, she said : 

“Remember that you belong to us now. I 
look on this expedition as sheer madness. And, 
pray, what will Denis say?” 

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Money; but you must 
please let me go. Denis will tell you that I am 
going to keep a promise. He knows all about 
it; he was with me when I made it. One of 
the old people on the hill is dying— he was a 
friend of my grandfather’s.” 

“And when will you return?” 

“I shall try and be back at Racehill before 
dark.” 

“Shall I come for you?” 

“No. I must pack my things and collect all 
my belongings. I would rather do it all at once 
than ever have to return. I am not very fond 
of Racehill.” 

• “Then I shall come over to-morrow — at what 
hour? About two o’clock?” 

“I shall be quite ready then.” 

“Ah, then. Miss O’Bierne!” cried Katty, im- 
patiently. “Can’t ye not be blathering here 
when the old man is dying. Come aff at wance 
if yer coming at all,” and Geraldine obeyed her 
immediately. 

As they made their way out to the road, Geral- 
dine exchanged a few eager words with Denis, 
who joined her, looking somewhat grave and 
pale, but otherwise none the worse for his in- 


316 


BEYOND THE PALE 


carceratioB; and, in spite of Mrs. Shea’s clamor 
and protestations, he accompanied her a part of 
the way on her errand of mercy. 

“Must you really go?” he remonstrated. “It 
is a frightful day, and my mother wants to take 
you home with her. She says this expedition is 
sheer madness. ” 

“ ’Tis Tim Mooney, sir. The breath of him 
won’t lave his body till he sees her. He’s just 
holding on to his sowl till he bids her good-by,” 
explained Katty. “Sure, you wouldn’t grudge 
a few moments to the ould man, when ye have 
fifty years before ye.” 

. “I must go, indeed, Denis. You remember 
my promise. I’m not afraid of bad weather. 
It would always be on my conscience if I re- 
fused poor old Tim’s last wish, and you know 
he has had such a hard life.” 

“Of course, if it’s old Tim, you must go. A 
promise is a promise, whether to him or to me. 
I am coming with you, but I don’t fancy your 
being out in this high wind.” 

“Indeed, Denis, you must not think of it,” 
she rejoined emphatically. “You won’t be of- 
fended, I know, but they expect me alone. You 
see, you are a stranger to the Mooney’s.” 

“Then, at least, I may come and meet you,” 
he urged. “It is now,” looking at his watch, 
“three o’clock.” 

“No, no. I may be kept till dusk, or longer 
— I shall stay till the end”— she added, lowering 
her voice. “But come over to Racehill very 
early to-morrow — about half-past ten or eleven.’^ 


BEYOND THE PALE 


317 


‘‘I don’t call that very early,” he grumbled. 
‘‘AVell, at any rate, you are coming home to- 
morroVT,” and he paused and took both her 
hands in his and looked straight into her eyes, 
utterly regardless of Mrs. Shea. 

“Ah, see now, this sort of work and delay 
won’t do at all. Miss Geraldine,” burst out 
Katty. “Ye bid to hurry, to hurry, to hurry, 
when ye know very well as every breath is 
drawing old Tim nearer the next world.” 

They 'were now at the style leading to the 
path across the fields, and she added, authorita- 
tively, “Come no further, sir, av ye plase; you 
are only holding her back from a pious work; 
and won’t ye have her all to yourself from this 
out forever and ever, Amen?” As she spoke 
Mrs. Shea climbed over the obstacle with sur- 
prising agility, and began to breast the hill. 

“Yes, Denis, and your father and mother have 
scarcely had a word with you yet. We must not 
be selfish. Do not come any further now. We 
shall have all to-morrow,” and she looked at 
him, her face radiant with happiness, then laid 
her hand on his arm for a moment with a shy 
caress, said “Good-by, dear,” stepped quickly 
over the style, and ran after Katty, who was 
struggling desperately with the combined forces 
of a high hill and a high wind. 

Denis remained motionless, still gazing after 
them. Their progress was but slow. For an 
instant Geraldine turned back; the storm had 
given her a bright color and blown adrift a 
strand of her long dark hair. With one hand 


318 


BEYOND THE PALE 


she held her hat, vdth the other she waved him 
a playful adieu. 

The beautiful, brilliant face, the slander, 
nymph - like figure, thrown out into relief 
against the hillside, made an exquisite pict- 
ure for an artist— or a lover. The latter re- 
moved his cap and held it up in answer to her 
signals, and the wild west wind brought down 
to him on its sweeping wings one thrilling little 
word, the word ^‘To-morrow.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 
‘‘do you know who you are?” 

It was barely ten o’clock, and Denis Money, 
booted and spurred, was waiting for his horse 
when he descried a familiar cover car lumber- 
ing up the avenue. Instantly recognizing two 
old white faces who were peering out, he ran 
down the steps to receive them and conduct 
them indoors. 

Mr. and Mrs. Money were sitting in the 
library discussing matters domestic and finan- 
cial, when Denis suddenly ushered in “the Miss 
Dwyers.” 

“I hope you will excuse our coming at this 
unceremonious hour, Mrs. Money?” said Nar- 
cissa, advancing, with a black satin bag over 
her arm, and looking unusually pale and grim. 

“Oh, certainly. Delighted to see you at any 
time. Miss Dwyer. Won’t you come near the 
fire?'’ said the hostess, who had by no means 


BEYOND THE PALE 


B19 


recovered her habitual serenity nor her experi- 
ence of the feverish miseries of the previous day. 

“No, thank you,” seating herself bolt up- 
right, “I’ve come on an important, and, ahem! 
rather unpleasant, and, probably, thankless 
errand,” here she frowned at Lucy, who was 
about to speak. “I wish to have an interview 
with you and Mr. Money respecting my god- 
daughter, Geraldine O’Bierne.” 

“Yes. Indeed, w© felt most deeply, deeply 
grateful to her for her testimony,” said Mrs. 
Money, whose tone was pitched in a very sub- 
dued key. 

“I’m not here to discuss that. What I am 
here to discuss is this,” and out of her embroid- 
ered bag she produced Geraldine’s note. “I 
should have received this yesterday afternoon, 
but it only reached me late last night. It is the 
apology for my very early visit.” 

“That will do, Narcissa, *that will do,” inter- 
rupted Lucy, in a sb-rill high voice. 

Mrs. Money attempted to speak, but Miss 
Dwyer silenced her with a peremptory wave of 
the hand, and Denis, who had hitherto been 
standing, suddenly dropped into a deep arm- 
chair, and gave his whole attention to his fian- 
cee’s letter. 

“ ‘My dear God-mother’ ’’—read Miss Nar- 
cissa — “ ‘I have been in great trouble since I 
saw you; indeed, in many, within a few hours. 
Last evening I had a quarrel with Mr. Scully. 
He has sold Dancing Girl, and he threatened me 
in such a way that I felt I could no longer 
remain at Racehill. I would sooner, far, take 


320 


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a situation, or even beg. Perhaps I ought to 
have stayed indoors and slept on my anger, 
but I could not. I determined, as there was a 
moon, to walk to Creeshe, and lay my troubles 
before you. 

‘‘ ‘And now I must tell you what I ought to 
have placed first. Mr. Denis Money has asked 
me to marry him. He loves me and I love him. 
But I told him I would never be his wife with- 
out the fulL consent of his father and mother. 
He overtook me driving and got out and walked. 
I told him that 1 was leavTng Racehill, I could 
no longer endure it, and was going to ask. you 
for shelter. He persuaded me to turn back for 
one night, and he informed me that his father 
would not consent to an engagement between 
us, not, at any rate, for two years. I can un- 
derstand this perfectly. I am not well educated, 
I am poor — in short, it means that he disapproves 
— it means that there is an end to our wishes. I 
am too proud, as you know, to enter a family 
where I am not wanted, much and truly as I 
love Denis. He drove me back, and before you 
read this you will have heard of the murder of 
Casey Walshe, and how we found him on the 
road. Denis Money has been arrested and kept 
at the police barrack, wheje I shall appear as 
witness. If this* should be in time, dear, dear 
Miss' Narcissa, come and stand by me. 1 have 
no one to look to but old Biddy, who greatly dis- 
approves. When the inquest is over, and I have 
done my duty, may I go to Creeshe and stay 
with you until you find me some humble situa- 
tion? Racehiil is more than I can bear. Mr. 
Scully is ill, Tilly has run away, Casey is dead. 
I shall await your answer with anxiety. Excuse 
great haste, and this hideous scrawl. 

“ ‘Your affectionate 

“ ‘G. O’Bierne.’ 


BEYOND THE PALE 


321 


^‘ISTow, Mr. Money, is it true that your son 
has offered for Geraldine O’Bierne and that you 
objected?’’ asked Miss Narcissa, addressing him 
precisely as she were on the bench and Mr. 
Money in the dock. 

‘‘Yes, it is quite true, but — ” 

“If it’s her want of education, she is as well- 
informed as most. JThe want of money I don’t 
deny. Her undesirable associations — well, is 
that her fault? And, mind you, they are only 
associations, not relations, ahem ! Her blood is 
as good as the queen’s. Now, with respect to 
yourself, Mr. Money, it’s altogether another 
matter. Do you know who you are?” 

“Does he know who he is?” put in Mrs. 
Money, with an air of hopeless bewilderment. 

‘'Do I know who I am? Well, yes, ma’am, I 
do. I am Anthony Money.” 

“Not a bit of it,” rejoined the old lady, who 
was undoubtedly quite mad — raving mad. 
“You are Anthony Mooney, old Dan Mooney’s 
grandson. You are Mooney of Clorane — Clo- 
rane — a dirty little village at the back of the hill; 
and your grandfather was born in the end house 
— the one with the two crooked windows. God! 
To think of his grandson living in Carrig!” 
piously casting up her eyes. 

“Madam!” 

, “You need not ‘Madam’ me. And I got the 
story all from yourself. You told me your 
grandfather was Irish, and went over to En- 
gland — the offshoot of some great family from 
a place called Clorane. Ha, ha! That he was 


322 


BEYOND THE PALE 


poor. Indeed he was — no poorer ; but Peter 
was always a long-headed chap, saving of his 
coppers.’’ 

‘‘Miss Dwyer — Miss Dwyer,” b^^oke in Mr. 
Money, “you must allow me to speak.” 

“You shall have your turn presently. Your 
father got on ; he wrote and sent home money. 
He was in an office, drawing good pay — a hun- 
dred a year — and educating himself. Then the 
old people died, and there was no more. But 
just bits of stories came over that, Peter was 
doing well, and then they faded away. Why? 
Because he had dropped the ‘o’ — the figure ought 
— out of the name, and called himself after what 
he liked best in the whole wide world — and that 
was Money. He married money — you married 
money; and I suppose this young man here,” 
turning sharply on Denis, “will have to marry 
money. Only he seems more disposed for love. 
Lord! if old Brian O’Bierne could only come out 
of the family vault and hear that a grandson of 
old Dan Mooney’s was too fine to marry his 
granddaughter,” and she went off into a scream 
of derisive laughter. 

“Miss Dwyer,” burst in Mrs. Money, “you 
are laboring under some monstrous mistake.” 

“No, sir, I am not,” speaking directly to her 
husband. “I can prove every word I say,” she 
continued inflexibly, “and can bring the whole 
country to bear me out. Why, it’s in your face, 
man alive! Are you not sitting there and look- 
ing at me with the very eyes of old Dan himself? 
There’s no shame in it at all, only I am that 


BEYOND THE PALE 


323 


fixed in old notions that I cannot say I like to 
see you lolling there, master of all the O’Bierne 
belongings, living in their ancestral home, while 
your own home by rights is a tumble- down two- 
roomed cabin. Yes, and with Mooney living in 
it now,’- she pursued, pitiless in her recollec- 
tions. ‘‘Your Uncle Mike has still the breath 
in him, and ’tis your own cousin Paddy — a by- 
word for drink — that’s driving our cover car this 
minute. It was a great pity, when you were 
anxious to get into grand society, that you came 
so near home.” 

“Have you done, ma’am?” rising to his feet. 

“No, I have not, but I soon will be.” 

“What proof have you for this outrageous 
rigmarole? How can you corroborate this mon- 
strous tale?” 

“By your own words. Clorane, that gave me 
a start — and your Irish ways and traits; you 
have Irish eyes.” 

“Is that all?” with a gesture of angry im- 
patience. 

“No; I have letters,” rummaging in her bag 
and producing several. “Here is one, ahem! 
I’ll just read it,” and, clearing her tkroat, she 
began at once: 

“ ^May 22 , 1834 . 

“ ‘Stanhope St., L’pooL 

“ ‘Dear Father — I am doing very well and 
in good health, and I hope this finds you all the 
same, as it leaves me. I inclose Bank Order for 
ten pounds; it will pay your rent or buy a couple 
of yearling heifers, or a few borieens. I am get- 
ting well used to this big town, but I often wish 


BEYOND' THE PALE 


B;>4 


for a sniff of the hill air, the air of a turf fire, 
and a bit of bacon. I hope the family at Carrig 
is well. Give my humble respects to the young 
master and say I am getting on finely. 

“‘Your son, P. Mooney.’ 

“ ‘P.S. — Has Judy Shea gone to Ameriky?’ 

“Here is one fifteen years later,” continued 
Miss Warcissa: 

“ ‘Dear Brother Timothy— I’m about get- 
ting married to a young lady. It was well I 
never thought of coming back for Judy Shea. 
The young lady’s name is Corder, she has a 
large fortune, and her father is going to take me 
into partnership, and I have saved some money, 
which is well invested. I intend leaving this 
part of Liverpool and going more out into the 
country; but it’s all sea and sand, and different 
to the green hills and woods of Carrig. I am 
sorry to hear that my father is so failed, and 
that the cow died. I would like to see you all 
again, but I do not know how it could be man- 
aged. My intended wife has no fancy for Ire- 
land, or the Irish. I inclose forty pounds to 
make the place tight. Is Joe Kelly still thatch- 
ing? I never have time to see even the sights 
of Li verpool. I am in my office all day long, or 
else at the docks, or on ’Change. You can still 
address .to me here. My letters will be for- 
warded. 

“ ‘I am your affect, brother, 

“‘Peter Mooney.’ 

“ ‘P.S. — Be sure you put Esquire. I’m not 
Mr, Mooney now.’ 

“Now what do you say to that?” handing him 
both letters, with a smile that was not altogether 
benevolent. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


326 


Mr. Money put on his glasses, and examined 
them gravely. 

“Well,” looking up after a very long silence, 
“my mother’s name vras Corder, and this is 
my father’s handwriting. I believe what you 
have told me is perfectly true.” 

“It’s a sad come down,” broke in Miss Lucy. 

“It is some vile joke,” gasped Mrs. Money, 
breathlessly. 

“No, my dear; Miss Dwyer has pieced my 
pedigree together, and it seems that I am of a 
very obscure origin,” said her husband, with 
surprising dignity and fortitude. 

“Well, at any rate, you were always respect- 
'able,” observed MivSS Dwyer, consolingly. “The 
Mooneys were never Terry Alts, or White Boys, 
or thieves.” 

“And do you mean to say,” said Mrs. Money, 
putting her hands up to her temples, “that Mr. 
Money’s father was just a laboring man, that 
his uncle is alive, and lives in a cabin?” 

“Yes, on about four shillings a week.” 

“And when this is known — when it is the joke 
of the country — ” 

“It will 'never be known, but just within 
these, walls, excepting by the parish priest — 
who knows everything.” 

“And what do you want me to do. Miss 
Dwyer?” inquired Anthony, somewhat grimly. 

“I want you to give back the lands to the 
O’Biernes. It’s a great and godly chance for a 
Mooney! The O’Biernes were always good to 
you and yours, and never pressed you for rent. 


32(3 


BEYOND THE PALE 


One of the Mooneys was in the stables here for 
years and years.” 

Mr. Money stood up; he put his hand over his 
eyes, then took it away again. He looked pale, 
dazed and confused. 

^‘You fancy Carrig,” pursued the old lady 
eagerly. “You are dra\yn to the place by your 
very heartstrings. No wonder, when your peo- 
ple were tenants on the land for generations! 
You have plenty of money, Mr. Mooney; pay off 
the mortgages; let your son — a very personable, 
well-living, well-liked young man — bring the 
last of the O’Biernes under the old roof, and 
take the name Your descendants will be 
O’Biernes of Carrig — think of that! Of course, ' 
she need never know — and, indeed, never must 
know — what I’ve told you; for, to be plain with 
you, I doubt if Geraldine would marry a 
Mooney!” 

And, having at last come to an end of what 
she had to say. Miss Dwyer crossed her hands 
upon her bag, sniffed several times, and glanced 
over at Mrs. Money, as much as to intimate that 
she was now welcome to speak — if she could. 

After a long and expressive pause Mrs. Money 
found her tongue. 

“Wh^t you have taken so much trouble to 
discover, and have expressed so cleverly. Miss 
Dwyer, is, I have no hesitation in saying, a 
most painful blow to me. No, and, I am not 
ashamed to own it, a keen disappointment. I 
have always respected, revered, good family; 
but after yesterday,” glancing at Denis, “I be- 


BEYOND THE PALE 


327 


lieve I can bear anything. After seeing our 
dear boy brought in between two policemen and 
arraigned as a murderer I can stand any shock. 
Miss O’Bierne behaved in a most noble manner. 
Any reluctance we, I, may have felt to the en- 
gagement is gone. So, in one way. Miss Dwyer, 
you might have spared yourself the trouble.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” very shortly. 

“The carriage is ordered j and I am going to 
Racehill myself to fetch her at two o’clock,” 

“That’s odd, as odd as letters crossing; for it 
was just what Lucy and I were about to do on 
our way from this.” 

“I was anxious to bring her yesterday, only 
she was sent for to attend the death-bed of some 
old man — and, now that I think of it, his name 
was Mooney. Anthony!” turning quickly to 
her husband, “you need never ask me to put 
the ‘o’ back into the name.” 

“Well, the Mooneys are nearly extinct, if 
that’s any comfort,” remarked Miss Dwyer im- 
pressively; “and, of course, not one soul but our 
five selves knows anything, and all will be ex- 
actly the same as ever.” 

“One other person shall know,” said Denis, 
standing up, “and that is Miss O’Bierne. Not 
that it will make the least difference to her.” - 

“And, at any rate, you, Denis, have noble 
blood in your veins, on your mother’s side — the 
Lorraines,” said Mrs. Money, rather piteously. 

“The world seems all topsy-turvy,” exclaimed 
Anthony. “It will take me some time to shake 
my mind into a new shape, and to order myself 


828 


BEYOND THE PALE 


lowly and reverently to all my betters, ” he added, 
with a faint smile. 

“Why should you mind, father?” said his son, 
putting his hand on his shoulder affectionately. 
“For my part, I am proud of my grandfather, 
who, without guide or friend, went out into the 
world to seek his fortune, and who made ours. 
I can only say that I am greatly obliged to him, 
and that I, for one, am not the least ashamed 
of him.” 

“Denis Money,” said Miss Dwyer, rising, 
walking over to him, and taking his hand, 
“you are a gentleman.” 

“Thank you. Miss Dwyer,” with a grave 
bow. 

“Yes, you are, and I cannot say more, and I 
do not care who your grandfather was” (which 
was an immense concession from Miss Narcissa). 

“And now. Miss Dwyer, I hope you will ex- 
cuse me, for I’m just off to Racehill,” and, with 
a significant smile, he added, “and I suppose 
you know my errand?” 

“Yes, I suppose you are going as an outrider, 
and will bring Geraldine back with you. Well, 
good luck go with you ; but I need not throw my 
slipper after you io-day,” and she beamed upon 
him almost as if he was her own lover. 

“I hope, Miss Dwyer, that you and your sis- 
ter will stay to lunch?” said Mrs. Money, with 
unexpected hospitality — the result of a glance 
from her stepson. “Pray do — we shall lunch 
early.” 

“Yes. We will take no refusal, Miss Dwyer,” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


3^>9 

added her husband cordially. ‘‘You must bol’.i 
remain here this afternoon and welcome Geral- 
dine O’Bierne home.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 

ANTICIPATxON 

When Denis Money rode off to Racehill — to 
•pay what he hoped would be his final visit to 
the trainer’s home — he was unquestionably one 
of the happiest young men on whom the sun had 
risen that day. He was about to claim his love 
and to bring her to the home of her own people. 
Even the recent announcement of his pedigree 
had not had the smallest sobering effbct upon 
his high spirits ; indeed, as far as looks and bear- 
ing went, Denis might have had the blood of all 
the Howards in his veins; and as he and Black 
Pat sped across the demesne they made a truly 
gallant pair. 

Miss Narcissa Dwyer gazed after him from 
the library window with shining eyes and a 
faint, unaccustomed color in either pale cheek. 
She was in a state of feverish excitement; her 
heart waS beating once more as it had throbbed 
when she was seventeen. She was full of ex- 
ultation, expectation, and deep thankfulness. 

To think that the Almighty had spared her to 
see her dreams realized— to see Brian’s grand- 
daughter, the sole representative of the O’Biernes, 


330 


BEYOND THE PALE 


enter Carrig as its future mistress. She could 
scarcely contain herself, so eager and restless 
was her condition. She fidgeted incessantly, 
she got up, she sat down again, took off her 
gloves, resumed them, and all the time her eyes 
kept wandering to the clock. It was an im- 
mense relief when Mr. Money volunteered to 
show her improvements in the orangery, and 
she accepted his invitation with great alacrity. 

He himself was not insensible to the situation; 
he had had his aspirations, which included a 
secret weakness for a title, and would have wel- 
comed Lady Flora theoretically, though person- 
ally he did not admire her. Lady Flora was 
silly, vapid, shallow, but a duke’s daughter, 
and he had always been more or less under the 
spell of the dark-haired, bewitching Irish girl — 
his son’s choice. She would be a distinguished 
addition to his family. His family! Well, at 
any rate, his future daughter-in-law was as well 
born as she was beautiful, and he would wel- 
come her gladly to Oarrig. He and Denis had 
always been capital friends, and the glow of 
Denis’s happiness cast a pleasant reflection oh 
himself. But the Mooneys of Clorane! No, 
this was not a pleasant subject to contemplate. 
Miss Dwyer’s recent revelations had violently 
dislocated many fixed ideas. And Carrig was 
the great place his father had so eloquently 
painted. Well, he was the owner of Carrig 
now, and all the lands on which his forefathers 
had labored. Why should not Denis assume 
the name and arms of the O’Biernes? And then 


BEYOND THE PALE 


331 


all the ancient crests and emblazonments would 
not appear so incongruous. Denis, and not 
Geraldine, should change his name on his mar- 
riage. Denis O’Bierne — yes, it sounded better 
far than Denis Mooney. These ideas were seeth- 
ing in his brain and taking form and life as An- 
thony paced the marble flags of the orangery, 
and kept up a fitful conversation with Miss Nar- 
cissa Dwyer. ^ 

She had her own thoughts (also concealed by 
speech), and, to tell the whole truth and noth- 
ing but the truth, was speculating gravely upon 
her companion’s age and wondering how many 
years would elapse before her darling child would 
actually enjoy her own. 

“We shall be wanting some of these orange 
flowers soon,” she complacently remarked, as 
she touched a spray. 

“Yes, I suppose so. Happy is the wooing 
that is not long a-doing.” 

“This is the end of February,” said Miss Nar- 
cissa. “What do you say to April? May is out 
of the question. ” 

“My dear Miss Dwyer, you don’t imagine 
that I shall be allowed to fix the day? All I 
can say is the sooner the better.” 

“To which I say Amen,” she returned em- 
phatically. “I’m getting very old, Mr. Money, 
my time may reasonably be numbered by weeks 
— by days;” then her voice broke as she added, 
“I cannot tell you what this is to me — this mar- 
riage. Carrig and Creeshe have stood by one 
another for generations— what has touched one 


33 ^ 


BEYOND THE PALE 


has touched the other — and I need scarcely say 
that this is a day of heartfelt joy and thanks- 
giving for Creeshe.” 

^‘I’m sure it is, and I hope that in future we 
shall see a great deal of you and your sister; 
you stand, in a way, as loco parentis to Miss 
O’Bierne.” 

‘‘Why don’t you call her Geraldine?” 

“Geraldine, then. have always liked her 
from the very first.” 

“And yet you held back.” 

“I was persuaded — well, well, we will say no • 
more about it.” 

“No. I see you have quantities of white fiow- 
ers, lilies, azaleas, tulips, no need to wait for 
April. Why not have the wedding next month?” 

“I am agreeable to anything. Miss Dwyer, 
you had better talk to Geraldine and Denis ; per- 
haps you would like to see the hothouses?” 

Miss Lucy had, in the meanwhile, remained 
in the library with Mrs. Money. They were 
both rather silent, and Miss Lucy was evidently 
depressed, and very far from sharing her sister’s 
joy and exultation; she was tremulous, shaky, 
almost tearful, and rather stiffly repelled Mrs. 
Money’s kind solicitude, assuring her that “noth- 
ing ailed her but a little lightness of the head, 
the effects of an early breakfast and the cover 
car.” 

Mrs. Money had her own reflections. Some 
of her little household family gods had been 
ruthlessly shattered; her mind could scarcely 
grasp the situation, nor take in the fact that 


BEYOND THE PALE 


333 


her husband’s uncle was a superannuated old 
servant, his nephew a drunken car-driver, his 
ancestral halls a cabin on the Horseleap Hills! 
AY ell, at any rate, this girl, Denis’s bride, would 
bring dignity and long descent as her dower, and 
bridge the hideous chasm in the family pedigree. 

By half-past one o’clock Denis had returned, 
with his horse in a lather; dismay and anxiety 
were depicted on his face as he burst into the 
dining-room where Mr. and Mrs. Money and 
the Miss Dwyers sat at lunch. 

^‘She is not at Racehill,” he announced, abrupt- 
ly, “Geraldine is not there.” 

“Nonsense, myliear,” exclaimed Mrs. Money. 

“No, I saw the old cook, and she has never 
been home all night. They believed she was at 
Creeshe,” fixing his eyes on Miss Dwyer. 

“She is not at Creeshe,” rejoined Miss Dwyer, 
laying down a very tremulous fork, and sensible 
of a strange creeping fear. 

“Oh, Miss Dwyer, where is she?” demanded 
the distracted young man. “ AYhere is she? You 
must know.” 

“AYait, my boy, don’t meet trouble half way,” 
said his father. “Now, let us think it over quiet- 
ly. At three o’clock yesterday she went up the 
hill; she was to return to Racehill before dark.” 

“Yes, I walked a part of the way with her my- 
self ; she was with Katty Shea, who had come to 
fetch her.” 

“I have it,” exclaimed Miss Dwyer, triumph- 
antly. “She has stopped on the hill all night. 
They would not let her face the weather.” 


334 


BEYOND THE PALE 


“Beg pardon, sir,” said a footman, entering 
suddenly, with a scared white face, and evi- 
dently under the influence of some overwhelm- 
ing emotion, “but they are saying that” — he 
paused as if he was unable to articulate. 

“Man, what are they saying?” demanded 
Denis, with a stamp of his foot. “Quick, quick, 
quick!” 

“That the gale, that Miss O’Bierne — Ob, 
sir, that I should live to tell it,” and he choked 
again. “That old Carrig came down last night 
in the great storm, and that — that Miss O’Bierue 
lies buried under it!” 


CHAPTER FORTY 

MR. money’s aunt BY MARRIAGE 

Before he had ceased speaking every one 
was on their feet, except Miss Lucy, ^ho had 
fainted. 

“It is not true, William Driscoll,” cried Miss 
Dwyer, in a strange hoarse key. “It is impos- 
sible” — impossible that at the very moment of 
realization the hope of her old age should be 
extinguished. 

“Oh, Miss Dwyer, do you think I would make 
up such an awful piece of news?” asked the man, 
with tears steadily rolling down his cheeks. “A 
boy brought the word this minute. The whole 
castle fell in last nigh.t, and they were getting 
the stones off av her — he came for a pick.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


335 


As for Denis Money, he had not waited to hear 
more particulars. He \yas like a man who had 
lost his senses, and was already galloping to Car- 
rig. As he drew near the hill, urging his horse 
^t headlong speed up the long boreen, he caught 
sight of the keep, and saw that the old mansion 
had indeed fallen in. As he approached, at rac- 
ing speed, over the fields and loose stone walls, 
he was ^fware that a large concourse of people 
were gathered round the ruin. He noticed a 
sudden stir among the crowd, and one of them 
broke away from the rest, and came running to 
meet him — a handsome, eager-eyed youth, with 
the wind blowing back his curly hair, his face, 
radiant. He leaped a stone wall with the agil- 
ity of a deer, shouting out as he ran, ‘‘She’s all 
right, your honor. She is safe.” . 

Well he and the whole hill knew that this pale 
horseman, whose name might have been Death, 
was Miss O’Bierne’s young gentleman, and one 
touch of nature makes the whole world kin. 

“ ’Tis true, your honor. Glory be to God, 
and not a hair of her head the worse.” 

The sudden revulsion of feeling was so over- 
whelming that Denis Money could not speak. 
The whole world seemed to reel round him. 
The messenger of good news had a sweetheart 
of his own — pretty Nora Driscoll — and he had 
a fellow-feeling for this Englishman, who sat 
looking at him with a face as set ajid white as 
that of a corpse, and whose trembling hands 
could scarcely hold the reins or trembling lips 
articulate a word. 


336 


BEYOND THE PALE 


‘‘Where is she?” he stammered out at last. 

“There above, at Katty Shea’s, your honor.” 

“What happened?” turning the head of his 
panting horse toward Mrs. Shea’s cabin, the 
other keeping pace on foot. 

“Ye mind the terrible storm last ‘evening. 
Miss O’Bierne was on the hill, over at Tim 
Mooney’s. He died — may he rest in glory!- 
above five o’clock; and she set off home when 
the dusk was falling and the wind awful, but 
she would not be said nor led; she just bid to 
go, for she was never afraid of anything.” 

“Yes, yes, I know.” 

“Well, then, just after dark there was a fright- 
ful sound, like the bursting of a hundred cannon, 
and we all knew then as ould Carrig was down 
at last. This morning about twelvre o’clock, 
when people were home for their dinner, pokin’ 
round, never suspicioning any wan was hurted, 
they noticed two dogs prowling about, and they 
saw a bit of dark stuff sticking out through the 
stones, and when’ with that they found Miss 
O’Bierne’s hat the news spread like oil — as bad 
news does — an’ all the boys as were collecting 
for to wake Tim Mooney came running around, 
ready to tear up the place with their bare hands, 
and when, after sweating and striving and work- 
ing like black niggers, what did they come upon 
at long last but Padd}^ Pinafore as dead as a her- 
ring, and i^jay be just as well, for the stick he 
had with him — a blackthorn — told a queer old 
tale, being coated with blood and hair; and 
what between that and the bare footmarks, the 


BEYOND THE PALE 


337 


pjlis has no manner pf doubt now as to who 
done away with Casey Walslie.’*’ 

“Yes, yes. But, first of all, I want to heai' 
about Miss O'Bierne.'” 

“Well, then, yer honor, it appears .as the storm 
being beyond anything and her not able to kap^’ 
her feet, she ran into the castle for shelter, and 
Paddy was going to warn her seemingly when 
the place fell and nailed him on the doorstep. 
Sbe was inside, and caught by one of the floors, 
between that and the main wall, and the whole 
smash passed clean over her. She was not a 
hate the worse, barrin’ the fright and the cold 
and maybe a few scratches. It was Paddy’s 
dogs found her. We saw them hunting and 
scratching, and, begad, sure enough there was 
some one behind the old floor safe and sound. 
May she live long years!” 

“I want you to do something more for me. I 
knowypur face, but not your name,” said Denis. 

“I’m Pierce Sullivan, yer honor, and sure 
don’t I work in the grounds at Carrig?” 

“Well, Pierce, will you run your very best to 
Carrig and tell them the good news — the sooner 
they know it the better — while I go on to Mrs. 
Shea’s. I’ll never forget you, or your name, as 
long as I live,” and he looked down at Pierce 
with an expression in his eyes that .said far more 
than mere words. Pierce, with an eager nod, 
turned about, and started off at a long swinging 
trot, while Denis spurred Black Pat up to Katty 
Shea’s door. Katty herself ran out to receive 
him, saying: 


338 BEYOND THE BALE 

‘‘Oh! but me knees is still trimbling under 
me, and didn’t* I nearly lose me life wid the 
fright I got this day! She’s not a hair the 
worse, sir, only nearly fro2:e to death. I have 
her in at the fires, and Nora Driscoll waiting on 
her; hand and foot, making her a sup of warm 
tay, and haven’t I vowed four candles to St. 
Brigid and four to the Blessed Virgin, for sure, 
only for the curiosit}^ of them dogs of Paddy’s, 
she might be in under the floor till next Christ- 
mas twelvemonth.” 

“Can I see her?” dismounting as he spoke. 
In one day he seemed to have aged ten years. 

“An’ to be sure ye can. Here, give me a 
hoult of the baste,” taking Black Pat rudely by 
the head. “Come here to me now. Troth I 
see he doesn’t like ladies,” as Pat threw up his 
head and snorted. “Miss O’Bierne, here is Mr. 
Money for ye,” she announced, as she thrust 
open the cabin door with her foot. Geraldine, 
with her beautiful long hair flowing loosely over 
her shoulders, and wrapped in Nora’s best blue 
“cape” cloak, was seated before the fire. She 
looked pale and haggard, but otherwise none the 
worse for her recent experience. Nora was stand- 
ing by her— pretty, blushing Nora, Pierce Sulli- 
van’s sweetheart; and, whether prompted by a 
fellow-feeling or ov^er whelmed with shyness, she 
hastily withdrew with a muttered excuse into 
Mrs‘. Shea’s “room,” leaving Denis and Geral- 
dine alone. 


In what seemed to them an extraordinarily 


BEYOND THE PALE 


339 


short time — surely not five minutes — Mr. and 
Mrs. Money arrived. They had come on a 
jaunting car as far as practicable, and had 
climbed the rest. Poor Mrs. Money, she had 
not walked so far or so fast for years. Purple 
and panting, she arrived to take Geraldine away, 
to fetch her home from Katty’s Shea’s cabin. 
Katty was beaming with pride and joy and un- 
surpassed importance. Her little kitchen was 
“choked up with quality,” as she subsequently 
expressed it, and, being a shrewd old woman, 
she was fully alive to the fact that her humble 
home was the scene of a gr^at event; it was 
from under her thatched roof that Mr. Money 
had come to fetch the O’Bierne’s daughter home 
to Carrig. The outside car had gallantly strug- 
gled up the hill. The two ladies were to venture 
down upon it, and as they seated themselves a 
sympathetic crowd assembled around to witness 
their departure, and half a dozen hands busied 
themselves in arranging Nora’s blue cloak over 
Miss O’Bierne’s knees. Denis and his father 
were to follow on foot. “Who would believe 
that there were so many people on this hill,” 
said the latter, as he looked about him. “What 
is the name of it? I’ve never been up here before. 

“It’s Olorane, your honor,” said Katty 
promptly, “but not a quarter of them lives here, 
sure this is the poorest and wretchedest corner 
of the whole estate ; the neighbors is^come from 
all parts to attend the wake of old Tim Mooney, 
who died yesterday highly respected, and is be- 
ing waked now.” 


340 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Denis looked significantly at liis father. The 
same thought evidently struck them both, for, 
to the inexpressible . surprise of Katty and hei\ 
friend, • side by side they set off toward the 
Mooneys’ long ill-thatched cabin, the home of 
their ancestors. The amazed mourners fell back 
and made way for the two gentlemen as they en- 
tered. This was, indeed, the most unexpected 
honor — the owner of Carrig to come in person, 
no less, to see the last of one of the laborers on 
the estate. It argued well for the future. The 
Englishman had a kind and feeling heart. 

Denis and his father removed their hats and 
looked about them. As the^ stood inside the 
door of the dim and crowded cabin many a pair 
of keen eyes stole questioning and mistrustful 
glances at the visitors. What had brouglit them ? 
They were Britishers born and bred. They were 
not even members of the old faith. They were 
not looking for votes, nor for evidence. Cer- 
tainly the strangers seemed out of place in that 
smoky, squalid kitchen. Mr. Money, spare, gen- 
tlemanly, and upright, in his costly fur- trimmed 
coat, his son, with his handsome open face and 
independent bearing, might well be some young 
lord. Little, little, did the gaping crowd guess 
that they were gazing upon the late Timothy 
Mooney’s next-of-kin. 

The coflSn was on a long table, and within it 
lay the old- man, clothed in a coarse white flannel 
“habit.” His knotted, toil-worn hands were 
crossed upon his breast, his venerable features 
looked surprisingly dignifled and refined, and 


BEYOND THE PALE 


341 


his expression was that of one who had at last 
entered upon rest and peace. 

At the foot' of the corpse was placed a blue 
delf plate, already almost covered with shillings 
and half-crowns, subscriptions from the assem- 
bled company toward masses for the repose of 
old Tim’s soul (as well as the expenses of the 
refreshments attending his obsequies). 

The neighbors were seated round the apart- 
ment in rows two and three deep. Pipes, por- 
ter, whisky, and tea' had been liberally dis- 
pensed. Also cake. Each barony — ^nay, parish 
— has its own particular and rigid etiquette re- 
specting wakes ; a gigantic currant cake was the 
indispensable adjunct to ceremonies at Clorane. 
Without it a wake would have been a poor, mis- 
erable, and informal affair. On this occasion 
the cake was present in all its glory— solid, 
stodgy, and conspicuous. Also conspicuous on 
the very same chair which Denis had provided 
for her late husband sat the widow. Mooney en- 
throned, wearing a dress and face suitable to the 
occasion, and supported on either hand by sev- 
eral women, wearing bonnets, and evidently her 
most important acquaintances. There had been 
a sudden lull in the babel of sounds as the two 
unexpected guests entered the kitchen. Mr. 
Money looked around, and noted through the 
dim atmosphere the narrow windows, the un- 
even mud floor, the blackened rafters ; and this 
cabin had been the birthplace of his father! 
However, this was no time for contemplation or 
meditation. He turned to address a few kind 


342 


BEYOND THE PALE 


words ‘to Mrs. Mooney^ to whom Denis had in- 
troduced him — yes, Mrs. Mooney, his aunt by 
marriage! She stood up, rolling the hem of her 
apron nervously in her fingers, and almost inco- 
herent from the combined effects of this grand 
“show off” to her a^cquaintance, the importance 
of her present position as “a lone widow”— and 
treble X-porter. 

“Faix, I don’t wonder as yer honor did not 
make me out' for the widder not at first,” she 
exclaimed, “as I’m many years younger than 
Tim. I need not tell ye, yes, he was a good 
husband, though he had his failings. I’m sure 
he would be a proud man if he could see your 
honor at his wake. He always had a terrible 
opinion of anything out of Carrig — if it was only 
an ass itself . ” 

Then as Mr. Money laid a clean five-pound 
note on the blue plate her emotion altogether 
overcame her. She struggled heroically for a 
second, and finally burst into hysterical tears. 

“I won’t disturb you further, Mrs. Mooney,” 
he said. “I merely came to say that I propose 
to defray all the funei’al expenses.’' ♦ 

“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I know as the Carrig 
folk always had a wish for the Mooneys, but 
they never went so far as to bury them afore. 
It’s — it’s too much — too much entirely.” 

“No, I feel a particular interest in your hus- 
band, and I am extremely sorry that I never 
saw him alive. Let him be interred with every 
respect.” 

“Then, I suppose, I may go — to a hearse — 


BEYOND THE PALE 


343 


and feathers — and a headstone — and crape 
mourning?” she asked between her sobs. 

‘‘Certainly” — now lowering his voice; “and 
what are your own plans, Mrs. Mooney?” 

“I’m going to Ameriky— me and me niece 
has that long laid out, for most of my people 
are in it; and, as for Tim, he hadn’t a sowl be- 
longing to him barrin’ Paddy the driver — that 
drunken blaggard sitting over there in the win- 
dow. Them Mooneys has died out, an’ no great 
loss.” 

“Well, Mrs. Mooney, I will go now,” said 
Anthony, “but I should like to see you again 
shortly. Give me a call any morning before 
twelve o’clock, and let me know if there is any- 
thing I can do for you.” Aiid then he and 
Denis made their way toward the door amid an 
expressive silence, and were not sorry to find 
themselves once more out in the crisp, cold air 
of a February evening. 

For a few seconds after their departure there 
was a breathless pause, succeeded by a loud and 
excited buzz. A landlord ! Ay, and a Protest- 
ant landlord, who had come to a wake. Did 
any ona ever know the like? ’Tis true he was 
on the hills; and maybe Miss O’Bierne put him 
up to it; and he had given orders for a funeral, 
with a hearse, and had told Mrs. Mooney to give 
him a call. What did he mean? Mr. Money’s 
meaning proved to be a conundrum that baffled 
the whole company, and after some vigorous 
discussion and not a few wild guesses they 
unanimously gave it up. 


344 


BEYOND THE PALE 


As Anthony and his son descended the hill, 
and had almost reached its base, the wind car- 
ried down after them a sort of moarnful lament 
— a cry conveying a poignancy of anguish pecul- 
iar to the country, and once heard never for- 
gotten. 

‘‘What is that?” asked Denis, suddenly halt- 
ing to listen. “The Banshee?” 

“Can you not guess?” returned his father, 
who had also come to a standstill. “I have 
never heard it, but I seem to know it well. It 
is the old Celtic death wail, or Irish keen.” 


CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 

CHEAP HUNTER 

“And so I am only a Mooney after all !” said 
Denis, “though Mrs. Mooney of Clorane, for 
whom my father has provided, assured him 
that there was not a Mooney left in Ireland. 
That venerable man whom you took me to visit 
was my grand-uncle; and the poor old chap 
could neither read nor write. How can you 
ever get over all this and marry me. Miss 
Geraldine O’Bierne?” 

Geraldine laughed, a clear girlish laugh. It 
was her only answer. 

“ Where is your pride?” he continued, gayly. 
“The stiff, implacable pride of the O’Biernes. 
Miss Narcissa declared to me that she did not 
believe you would ever condescend to a Mooney. 
A Mooney! hideous name. Just reflect.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


345 


‘‘I am reflecting. That Garry is very late 
with the horses.” 

“Yoar ancestors were among the most power- 
ful chiefs of the Irishy. I’ve been reading all 
about them in this library. They carried fire 
and sword into the Pale — if you have ever heard 
of it? They filled high commands abroad. One 
of them married a king’s daughter; one was 
with a Geraldine at the Field of the Cloth of 
Gold. They fought for the Desmond in the 
great war in Munster, and were despoiled of 
many possessions, scattered, and even sold into 
slavery. They are known in Irish history as 
princes, patriots, warriors, and I ani descended 
from their humblest dependents— their kernes, 
‘their serfs.’ ” 

“Possibly, on your father’s side, but your 
mother had tlie blood of John of Gaunt in her 
veins, and my mother was of very low origin. 
So you see we are quits, that is, if it mattered 
one straw, which it does not; and, Denis, if you 
ever talk to me of my condescension again I 
shall — ” she paused. 

“Well?” 

“Not speak to you for a whole week.” 

“That is a safe promise, an empty threat, 
which you would never carry out.” This con- 
versation took place in the library at Carrig, as 
the pair stood in one of the deep windows wait- 
ing for their horses to be brought round. 

“Look, look, Denis!” exclaimed the girl, ex- 
citedly. “Look at that beautiful chestnut that 
Garry is leading ; she seems to drift beside him 


346 BEYOND THE PALE 

like a feather. Would j^ou not almost take her 
for Dancing Girl?” 

‘‘Why not take her for Dancing Girl?” he 
asked, composedly. 

“Oh, is it? It is, it is!” clapping her hands 
like a child. “Oh, you dear, good Denis! what 
made you think of it? I am too, too happy. 
How did you find her?” 

“She was among the stud at the fairy Rath, 
stabled, as you know, upon the Horseleap Moun- 
tain, fourth from the left as you entered. I sent 
Black Pat up to fetch her. She arrived last night 
just after the moon rose.” 

“Do be serious and talk sensibly, you silly 
Denis.” 

“Well, then, I wrote to Colonel Chandos and 
bought her, that is the simple and prosaic truth. 
She is looking very fit, none the worse for her 
little voyage, as you may see, and I will sell her 
to you for — a kiss!” 


CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 
“an ancient prophecy fulfilled” 

For once in his life Mr. Hare had actually 
more news in his budget than ho could deal 
with, so many events had recently come crowd- 
ing on one another’s heels. Mrs. Money’s grand 
ball was of itself atopic which would have lasted 
him handsomely for weeks, but it had been 
scarcely discussed — the guests, supper, suc- 
cesses, failures but primarily dissected — ^when 


BEYOND THE PALE 


847 


it was wholly set aside by the murder of Casey 
Walshe, and now came the fall of the old castle, 
the miraculous escape of Geraldine O’Bierne, 
and, climax of all intelligence, the announce- 
ment of her engagement to the great catch of 
the country — the heir of Carrig. 

This piece of news took the whole neighbor- 
hood by surprise, and after the first shock of 
amazement had abated, it received their most 
enthusiastic approval. 

Young Money was to assume 4)he name and 
arms of the O’Biernes, and the glories of the 
ancient race would be once more rekindled. 

Old people looked gravely into one another’s 
face, and recalled an ancient prophecy which 
said, “When Carrig falls, Carrig shall rise.” 
Had not this saying been fulfilled? Who could 
describe the various emotions of various people 
— of Tilly Scully, of Garry, of the Miss Dwyers? 
Narcissa openly proclaimed the fact that “she 
had taken a new lease of life”; also that the 
wedding was to be from Creeshe. Yes, at last 
Creeshe should give a bride to Carrig. She 
vehemently overpowered all Mr. Mone\' ’s argu- 
ments. Even Mrs. Money could not prevail 
against her. Geraldine might remain as a 
guest at Carrig, but the bride and bridegroom 
must not come from the same house on the wed- 
ding day. Such a thing was unheard of and 
outrageous. Geraldine would be married from 
Creeshe; she would take her goddaughter to 
the church, and subsequently give her away in 
person. 


348 


BEYOND THE PALE 


As for such an immaterial detail as the ex- 
pense, this, she eagerly assured Mrs. Money, 
was all arranged for. She had an ample un- 
touched found in store. To spend it on the pres- 
ent occasion would be to enjoy the great happiness 
of her whole life. 

The announcement about the “store” was a 
compromise with her own conscience. In one 
sense Miss Narcissa’s rose diamond brooch and 
ear-rings and necklace were a “store.” She 
packed them neatly up in their old red morocco 
cases and dispatched them to a jeweler in Dublin, 
who sent in return a registered letter, containing 
a very handsome check. 

“You see, my heart,” she said, as she sat over 
the fire in the boudoir with Geraldine and her 
sister, “it is really you who are giving yourself 
the wedding. The money it costs would have 
gone to you, being my goddaughter — and it’s 
my own to do as I like with — and you have a 
use for it now, and won’t want it later, thanks 
be to the Almighty!” * 

“But why should I not have a quiet wedding. 
Miss Narcissa, and just drive to church with 
you, and be married in my traveling dress?” 

“Because it would be a terrible disappointment 
to rich and poor — a mean, shabby show like that 
— and because I choose to have my own way! 
All in this place, such as it is — jewels, plate, 
books, house, and lands — I keep untouched and 
in trust for our heir — a second cousin, in the 
Bombay Staff Corps, that I’ve never seen and 
don’t want to see. But he shall never say that 


BEYOND THE PALE 


349 . 


old Narcissa or Lucy laid a finger on the Dwyer 
lieirlooms. Everything is in its place, even to 
my great-grandmother’s scratchback. What I 
have here” — and out of her black satin bag she 
produced a plump roll of notes — “is my own 
and yours.” 

“But, Miss Narcissa, I cannot and will not 
take it,” protested Geraldine, whose mind re- 
called the years and years of poverty at Creeshe, 
the scanty fires and food, the shabby clothes, 
the severe privations of the two old ladies. 

“Do you want to offend me mortally?” de- 
manded Miss Dwyer in an angry key. 

“No, Miss Narcissa.” 

“Do you want to disappoint me cruelly?” 

“Oh, no, I hope not,” she answered meekly. 

“Do you want to rob me of the only bit of joy 
that has come in my way for fifty years?” 

“I don’t intend to roh you of anything.” 

“Very well, then; hold your tongue, and do 
as I desire you,” she concluded, with energy. 
“I wrote to Scully, and he has sent restitution 
to the tune of one hundred pounds. That will 
be for your wedding clothes. I’m thinking from 
this that he is either going to die, or that he has 
some sort of a conscience. Anyhow, I hear he 
is very tame in himself and talking of giving up 
Racehill, now that you are out of it and Garry 
has taken on again at Carrig. Indeed, he may 
as well go first as last, for it was the pair of you 
that kept the roof over his head, and we can 
make a struggle to spare him and Tilly. You’ll 
be married in white satin, of course,” she con- 


350 


BEYOND THE PALE 


eluded autlioritatively, “and Lucy wants you to 
wear her lace.’’ 

“Yes, Miss Lucy, and I will take the money 
Mr. Scully sends. But the wedding expenses — 
No, I—” 

Here Miss Narcissa leaned over and put a 
hand across her mouth, saying: 

“Did I ever know such a girl! Listen now. 
All these years I have kept my diamonds, mean- 
ing them for you, Jerry. It’s true that they 
would have been buckles upon brogues, as they 
say, on a horse-trainer, but I always felt the}^ were 
yours. I never attempted to sell them; though I 
won’t deny that I went and looked at them two 
or three times that winter Lucy was laid up with 
the influenza. However, they are gone now,” 
and she patted her bag. “You will have plenty 
of diamonds from, the Moneys, and the price of 
mine will give us the wedding in handsome 
style.” 

“Miss Narcissa!” 

quiet; it is best in every way. I shall 
enjoy the value of the diamonds myself, whereas 
if you got them by my will, I’d be past all worldly 
pleasures. Now don’t say one word, or I declare 
I’ll turn Denis frqm the door when he comes 
over to tea.” 

Miss Dwyer had her own way, and the wed- 
ding of Geraldine, which had been spoken of by 
Mr. Hare as likely to be a poor and very shabby 
affair, proved to be quite the reverse. The 
church was beautifully decorated by the ladies 
of the parish, headed by Miss Hare and Mrs. 


BEYOND THE PALE 


351 


Vance. Even the old monuments of the O’Biemes 
were wreathed in flowers, the chancel was gay 
with palms and plants (the contents of the neigh- 
boring conservatories), the churchyard and ap- 
proaches were thronge^d with spectators in their 
best Sunday clothes, many of whom had walked 
miles that bright April morning to see the last 
of the O’Biernes made the bride of the heir of 
Carrig. Geraldine was accompanied to the 
church by the two Miss Dwyers — (oh, not in 
the cover car, but a smart brougham, drawn by 
flne gray horses). She looked beautiful in white 
satin. Miss Lucy’s lace, and the Money orange 
blossoms as she was led to the altar by Lord 
Bundoran. There were no bridesmaids — no, 
nor even a page. 

. The bride was given away by her proud and 
radiant godmother, who was surprisingly mag- 
nificent in J^rocade and furs. The church was 
packed. All the elite of the country, all the 
tenants of Carrig, all the members of the hunt, 
and numbers of Mrs. Money’s smart acquaint- 
ances were present, while the churchyard was 
tkronged with hundreds ot well-wishers belong- 
ing to the old faith. 

The company subsequently assembled at 
Creeshe to speed the happy pair, and the 
great suite of rooms was transformed into its 
former state. With all the ancient family plate 
displayed in the dining-room, there was good 
cheer, after Miss Narcissa’s own hospitable 
heart, and a throng of happy guests circulat- 
ing among the long-deserted reception rooms. 


352 


BEYOND THE PALE 


Mr. Money entertained the tenants* of Carrig 
right royally at a dinneT on the same occasion. 
Bonfires blazed on the mountains, and the wed- 
ding of ‘‘Galloping Jerry” was an event that 
had no parallel in the ^county for upward of 
twenty years. 

Qreeshe and Carrig are as closely knitted to- 
gether as they were in old days, and the private 
road is again well worn. Miss Narcissa has too 
much humanity and good feeling to allude to the 
Mooneys of Clorane, while Anthony Money, on 
his part, has set his clear, practical brain to work 
upon the Dwyer money matters; and extricated, 
not merely order from chaos, but a comfortable 
little annual income. Mr. Scully has disposed 
of the goodwill of Racehill, and, “owing to de- 
clining health,” see advertisement, gone to re- 
side in Dublin. There he attends local race meet- 
ings and sales of hunters, and shares a squalid 
house in the suburbs with Tilly and her satellites. 
Occasionally, when he is what is called “happ}^” 
he brags in glowing language of “me daughter, 
Mrs. O’Bierne, of Carrig,” for Denis had assumed 
the name and arms of the O’Biernes. ^ 

The double menage answered surprisingly well 
(the two ladies had their separate sitting-rooms 
and carriages), and Geraldine in every way 
effaced herself and deferred in all points to 
her mother-in-law. But, after a time, Mrs. 
Money wearied of her position. She had the 
power, but not the name, and she was in a 
country where in answer to “What’s in a name?” 
the reply is “Everything.” 


BEYOND THE PALE 


353 


Geraldine was Mrs. O’Bierne, while she was 
merely Mrs. Money. It was Mrs. O’Bierne to 
whom the poor people, the tenants, ay, and the 
county instinctively looked, despite the studied 
humility of that popular young' lady. 

By gradual, imperceptible degrees Mrs. Money 
passed more and more of her time in London, 
and Denis and Geraldine practically have Car- 
rig -to themselves. Mr. Money pays prolonged 
visits, and discourses affectionately of his place 
in Ireland, and loves it, and spends as much of 
the year there as is possible; but the old feudal 
spirit, which is beyond the reach of Money, in 
eveiy sense of the word, has, in a polite, good- 
humored, but irresistible way, dethroned and 
banished his wife. 

At Carrig Garry is installed as head groom, 
and Biddy Shea is head nurse. Nora is married 
to Pierce Sullivan, who is under-keeper, and 
lives in a pretty rose-covered cottage at one of 
the entrance gates. As for the ancestral home 
of the Mooneys, it is now the cow byre of the 
O'Driscolls, Mrs. Mooney and shite having emi- 
grated to America. Pat, the Jarvey, enjoyed 
the extraordinary favor of Mr. Money, and held 
at a nominal rental a snug farm for a couple of 
years. He relinquished car-driving, but no 
other habit, and alas! one dark night he mis- 
took his way and was swallowed by a sullen, 
black bog-hole. After her father’s tragic and 
untimely death Nannie married a warrant officer 
— it was considered a grand match for her — un- 
til it leaked out that the bride had a fortune of 


354 


BEYOND THE PALE 


five hundred pounds, no less! Where had it 
come from? Pat Mooney had nev'er saved a 
copper. The parish has long exhausted itself 
in vain speculation, for Nannie (who kept her 
mouth closed) is now in Hongkong. If you 
were to inquire of the neighbors, you would be 
assured that there is not one of the family now 
left in the country. But we know better; and 
that Denis Mooney of Clorane is at the present 
moment, by right of his wife Geraldine, The 
O’Bierne of Carrig. 

THE END. 



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voi. XV., No. 16 . January 1 5, 1 897. 




Issued Senil-Montlily. Entered at the Post-Office at New York as second-class 

PKTER KEXF/LOX COTJiTER, PuTUJSHER, 533 W. 18 th St., N 


BEYOND THE PALI 


A NOVEL 


13. M. CROKER 


Author of '^Proper Pride,^^ ^'Pretty Miss Neville,^ Bird of Pa, 
^'Diand Darrliiguai,^’ '‘'Two Masters,^'' “-4 Family Lihoieusd’ ''A 7 
Persor)A^ "Mr. Jervisd^ "Village Tales and Jungle TragedU 
"Interfcrene^V "Lady lilldaV "Married or Single, etc. 


IN TWO PARTS— PART ONE 





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- XV., No. 16. 


January 15, 1897. i 


Subscription Price, $5 
Single Copies, *^5 Cel 





A\ A\ A A A A A_A„A A^A A_A, A « 


BEYOND THE PALE 


A NOVEL 


BY 

B. M. CROKER 

Uor o.f “Proper Pride,'''' Pretty Mi.ss Neville,^' Bird of Po-ssorf 
)i(i)ia Barrington," Two Masters," ''A Family Likeness,"'^ A Thiri 
:^ers(fn," “i\/r. Jervis," JA^iPlage Tales a/nd Jungle Tragedies^ 
^interference," ''Lady Hilda," "Married, or Single," etc. 


IN TWO PARTS— PART TWO 



isued Semi-Montijly. Entered at the Post-Office at New York as second-class matter. 


PF/rKR KKX7i]l.()X COLLIER, Publisher, 623 W.'UTrii St., xV. V. 










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